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HARPER'S 


NEW  MONTHLY  MAGAZINE. 

Vol.  LXXXVIII.  JANUAKY,  1894.  No.  DXXIV. 


MY  GOLDEN-HAIRED  LADDIE. 

BY  MARGARET    E.   SANGSTER. 


MY  laddie,  my  laddie,  with  the  mane  of  tawny  gold, 
The  soft  blue  eyes,  the  open  brow,  the  mouth  like  Cupid's  bow — 
My  laddie,  my  laddie,  you  are  scarcely  six  years  old, 

But  the  ages  have  been  garnering  the  wonders  you  shall  know. 

For  you  has  Science  hoarded  her  secrets  strange  and  rare; 

For  you  have  wise  men  toiled  and  delved,  for  you  have  brave  men  fought; 
To  make  your  pathway  beautiful,  have  sea  and  earth  and  air 

Through  centuries  of  waiting  in  mystic  patience  wrought. 

No  battle  of  the  hoary  past  but  had  its  gage  for  you; 

No  rune  of  solemn  Norn  or  Fate  but  sends  its  thrilling  strain 
To  you,  for  whose  glad  coming  all  forces,  old  and  new, 

Are  blending  in   concurrent  notes,  are  sounding  time's  refrain. 

My  laddie,  O  my  laddie,  I  am   wistful  as  I  clasp 

Your  little  hand  within  my  own,  and  think  how  many  men, 

Gone  far  from  earth  and  memory,  beyond  our  mortal  grasp, 
Are  living  and  are  breathing,  dear  child,  in  you  again: — 

The  line  of  Flemish  weavers,  who  were  stout  and  tough  as  steel ; 

The  brave  old  Holland  gentlemen,  called  "Beggars  of  the  Sea"; 
The  coifed  and  wimpled  Puritans,  sweet  maids  and  matrons  leal, — 

Who  poured  their  weakness  and  their  strength  in  the  blood  of  you  and  me. 

My  laddie  of  the  golden  hair,  there  stand  at  God's  right  hand 

His  saints  who  went  through  blood  and  flame,  the  yeomen  of  our  line; 

And  there  are  seraphs  singing  in  the  glorious  better  land 

Whose  heart- beats  kept,  when  here  on  earth,  the  pace  of  yours  and  mine. 

Kneel,  little  laddie,  at  my  side,  there's  no  defence  like  this, 

An  evening  prayer  in  childish  trust,  and  let  him  scoff  who  may, — 

A  daily  prayer  to  God  above,  a  gentle  mother's  kiss, 
Will  keep  my  little  laddie  safe,  however  long  the  day. 

Those  stanch  old  burghers  of  the  past,  these  nearer  gentlemen, 

Sans  peur  et  sans  reproche,  who  look  through  your  sweet  eyes  of  blue, 

Were  honest  men,  clean-handed,  and  they  told  the  truth;— what  then? 
'Tis  all  I  crave,  my  laddie,  when  I  pray  to  God  with  you. 

Vol.  LXXXVIII.— No  524—15  Copyright,  1893,  by  Harper  and  Brothers.    All  rights  reserved. 


TKILBY. 


BY  GEORGE  DU  MAURIER. 

33art  jFfrst. 


u  Mimi  Pinson  est  une  blonde, 
Une  blonde  que  Ton  connait; 
Elle  n'a  qu'une  robe  au  monde, 
Landeiirette  !  et  qu'un  bonnet !" 

IT  was  a  fine  sunny  showery  day  in 
April. 
The  big  studio  window  was  open  at  the 
top,  and  let  in  a  pleasant  breeze  from  the 
northwest.  Things  were  beginning  to 
look  shipshape  at  last.  The  big  piano,  a 
semi-grand  by  Broad  wood,  had  arrived 
from  England  by  "the  Little  Quickness" 
{la  petite  vitesse),  as  the  goods  trains  are 
called  in  France,  and  lay,  freshly  tuned, 


THE   THIRD   HE   WAS  "LITTLE   BILLEE." 


alongside  the  eastern  wall ;  on  the  wall 
opposite  was  a  panoply  of  foils,  masks, 
and  boxing-gloves. 

A  trapeze,  a  knotted  rope,  and  two  par- 
allel cords,  supporting  each  a  ring,  de- 
pended from  a  huge  beam  in  the  ceiling. 
The  walls  were  of  the  usual  dull  red,  re- 
lieved by  plaster  casts  of  arms  and  legs 
and  hands  and  feet;  and  Dante's  mask, 
and  Michael  Angelo's  alto-rilievo  of  Leda 
and  the  swan,  and  a  centaur  and  Lapith 
from  the  Elgin  marbles — on  none  of  these 
had  the  dust  as  yet  had  time  to  settle. 

There  were  also  studies  in  oil  from  the 
nude;  copies  of  Titian,  Rembrandt,  Ve- 


lasquez, Rubens,  Tintoret,  Leonardo  da 
Vinci — none  of  the  school  of  Botticelli, 
Mantegna,  and  Co. — a  firm  whose  merits 
had  not  as  yet  been  revealed  to  the  many. 

Along  the  walls,  at  a  great  height,  ran 
a  broad  shelf,  on  which  were  other  casts 
in  plaster,  terra -cotta,  imitation  bronze: 
a  little  Theseus,  a  little  Venus  of  Milo,  a 
little  discobolus  ;  a  little  flayed  man 
threatening  high  heaven  (an  act  that 
seemed  almost  pardonable  under  the  cir- 
cumstances!);  a  lion  and  a  boar  by  Ba- 
rye;  an  anatomical  figure  of  a  horse  with 
only  one  leg  left  and  no  ears;  a  horse's 
head  from  the  pediment  of  the  Parthe- 
non, earless  also;  and  the  bust  of  Clytie, 
with  her  beautiful  low  brow,  her  sweet 
wan  gaze,  and  the  ineffable  forward  shrug 
of  her  dear  shoulders  that  makes  her  bos- 
om a  nest,  a  rest,  a  pillow,  a  refuge — to 
be  loved  and  desired  forever  by  genera- 
tion after  generation  of  the  sons  of  men. 

Near  the  stove  hung  a  gridiron,  a  fry- 
ing-pan, a  toasting-fork,  and  a  pair  of 
bellows.  In  an  adjoining  glazed  corner 
cupboard  were  plates  and  glasses,  black- 
handled  knives,  pewter  spoons,  and  three- 
pronged  steel  forks;  a  salad-bowl,  vine- 
gar-cruets, an  oil-flask,  two  mustard-pots 
(English  and  French), and  such  like  things 
— all  scrupulously  clean.  On  the  floor, 
which  had  been  stained  and  waxed  at 
considerable  cost,  lay  two  chetah -skins 
and  a  large  Persian  praying-rug.  One- 
half  of  it,  however  (under  the  trapeze 
and  at  the  farthest  end  from  the  window, 
beyond  the  model  throne),  was  covered 
with  coarse  matting,  that  one  might 
fence  or  box  without  slipping  down  and 
splitting  one's  self  in  two,  or  fall  with- 
out breaking  any  bones. 

Two  other  windows  of  the  usual  French 
size  and  pattern,  with  shutters  to  them 
and  heavy  curtains  of  baize,  opened  east 
and  west,  to  let  in  dawn  or  sunset,  as  the- 
case  might  be,  or  haply  keep  them  out. 
And  there  were  alcoves,  recesses,  irregu- 
larities, odd  little  nooks  and  corners,  to 
be  filled  up  as  time  wore  on  with  end- 
less personal  k  nick  knacks,  bibelots,  pri- 
vate properties  and  acquisitions — things 
that  make  a  place  genial,  homelike,  and 
good  to  remember,  and  sweet  to  muse 
upon  (with  fond  regret)  in  after-years. 


TRILBY. 


169 


44  THE   L.AIRD    OF    COCKPEN." 


And  an  immense  divan  spread  itself  in 
width  and  length  and  delightful  thick- 
ness just  beneath  the  big  north  window, 
the  business  window — a  divan  so  immense 
that  three  well-fed,  well-contented  Eng- 
lishmen could  all  lie  lazily  smoking  their 
pipes  on  it  at  once  without  being  in  each 
other's  way,  and  very  often  did! 

At  present  one  of  these  Englishmen — 
a  Yorkshireman,  by-the-way,  called  Taffy 
(and  also  the  man  of 
Blood,  because  he  was 
supposed  to  be  distant- 
ly related  to  a  baronet) 
— was  more  energeti- 
cally engaged.  Bare- 
armed,  and  in  his  shirt 
and  trousers,  he  was 
twirling  a  pair  of  Ind- 
ian clubs  round  his 
head.  His  face  was 
flushed,  and  he  was 
perspiring  freely  and 
looked  fierce.  He  was 
a  very  big  young  man, 
fair,  with  kind  but 
choleric  blue  eyes, 
and  the  muscles  of 
his  brawny  arm  were 
strong  as  iron  bands. 

For  three  years  he 
had  borne  her  Majes- 
ty's commission,  and 
had  been  through  the 
Crimean  campaign  without  a  scratch. 
He  would  have  been  one  of  the  famous 
six  hundred  in  the  famous  charge  at  Bal- 
aklava  but  for  a  sprained  ankle  (caught 
playing  leap-frog  in  the  trenches),  which 


kept  him  in  hospital  on  that  momentous 
day.  So  that  he  lost  his  chance  of  glory 
or  the  grave,  and  this  humiliating  mis- 
adventure had  sickened  him  of  soldiering 
for  life,  and  he  never  quite  got  over  it. 
Then,  feeling  within  himself  an  irresisti- 
ble vocation  for  art,  he  had  sold  out;  and 
here  he  was  in  Paris,  hard  at  work,  as 
we  see. 

He  was  good-looking,  with  straight 
features ;  but  I  regret  to  say  that,  besides 
his  heavy  plunger's  mustache,  he  wore 
an  immense  pair  of  drooping  auburn 
whiskers,  of  the  kind  that  used  to  be 
called  Piccadilly  weepers,  and  were  after- 
wards affected  by  Mr.  Sothern  in  Lord 
Dundreary.  It  was  a  fashion  to  do  so 
then  for  such  of  our  gilded  youth  as  could 
afford  the  time  (and  the  hair) ;  the  bigger 
and  fairer  the  whiskers,  the  more  beauti- 
ful was  thought  the  youth !  It  seems  in- 
credible in  these  days,  when  even  her 
Majesty's  household  brigade  go  about 
with  smooth  cheeks  and  lips,  like  priests 
or  play-actors. 

"  What's  become  of  all  the  gold 
Used  to  hang  and  brush  their  bosoms.  .  .  ?" 

Another  inmate  of  this  blissful  abode 
— Sandy,  the  Laird  of  Cockpen,  as  he  was 


THE   BRIDGE    OF   ARTS. 


called  —  sat  in  simi- 
larly simple  attire  at 
his  easel,  painting  at  a 
lifelike  little  picture  of 
a  Spanish  toreador  sere- 
nading a  lady  of  high 
degree  (in  broad  day- 
light). He  had  never 
been  to  Spain,  but  he  had 
a  complete  toreador's  kit — a  bargain  which 
he  had  picked  up  for  a  mere  song  in  the 
Boulevard  du  Temple — and  he  had  hired 
the  guitar.  His  pipe  was  in  his  mouth — 
reversed;    for  it  had  gone  out,  and  the 


170 


HARPERS    NEW    MONTHLY    MAGAZINE. 


TAFFY,  ALIAS   TALBOT   WYNNE. 


were  spilt  all    over   his   trousers, 
where  holes  were  often  burnt  in  this  way. 
Quite  gratuitously,  and  with   a  pleas- 
ing Scotch  accent,  he  began  to  declaim : 

"A  street  there  is  in  Paris  famous 

For  which  no  rhyme  our  language  yields ; 
Roo  Nerve  day  Petty  Shong  its  name  is — 
The  New  Street  of  the  Little  Fields " 

And  then,  in  his  keen  appreciation  of 
the  immortal  stanza,  he  chuckled  audibly, 
with  a  face  so  blithe  and  merry  and  well 
pleased  that  it  did  one  good  to  look  at 
him. 

He  also  had  entered  life  by  another 
door.  His  parents  (good  pious  people  in 
Dundee)  had  intended  that  he  should  be 
a  writer  to  the  signet,  as  his  father  and 
grandfather  had  been  before  him.  And 
here  he  was  in  Paris  famous,  painting 
toreadors,  and  spouting  the  "Ballad  of 
the  Bouillabaisse,"  as  he  would  often  do 
out  of  sheer  lightness  of  heart — much 
oftener,  indeed,  than  he  would  say  his 
prayers. 

Kneeling  on  the  divan,  with  his  elbow 
on  the  window-sill,  was  a  third  and  much 
younger  youth.  The  third  he  was  "Lit- 
tle Billee."  He  had  pulled  down  the 
green  baize  blind,  and  was  looking  over 
the  roofs  and  chimney-pots  of  Paris  and 
all  about  with  all  his  eyes,  munching  the 
while  a  roll  and  savory  saveloy,  in  which 
there  was  evidence  of  much  garlic.     He 


ate  with  great  relish,  for  he  was  very 
hungry;  he  had  been  all  the  morning  at 
Carrel's  studio,  drawing  from  the  life. 

Little  Billee  was  small  and  slender, 
about  twenty  or  twenty-one,  and  had  a 
straight  white  forehead  veined  with  blue, 
large  dark  blue  eyes,  delicate  regular 
features,  and  coal-black  hair.  He  was 
also  very  graceful  and  Avell  built,  Avith 
very  small  hands  and  feet,  and  much 
better  dressed  than  his  friends,  who  went 
out  of  their  way  to  outdo  the  denizens 
of  the  quartier  latin  in  careless  eccen- 
tricity of  garb,  and  succeeded.  And  in 
his  winning  and  handsome  face  there  was 
just  a  faint  suggestion  of  some  possible 
very  remote  Jewish  ancestor — just  a  tinge 
of  that  strong,  sturdy,  irrepressible,  in- 
domitable, indelible  blood  which  is  of 
such  priceless  value  in  diluted  homoeo- 
pathic doses,  like  the  dry  white  Spanish 
wine  called  montijo,  which  is  not  meant 
to  be  taken  pure;  but  without  a  judicious 
admixture  of  which  no  sherry  can  go 
round  the  world  and  keep  its  flavor  in- 
tact; or  like  the  famous  bull-dog  strain, 
which  is  not  beautiful  in  itself;  and  yet 
just  for  lacking  a  little  of  the  same  no 
greyhound  can  ever  hope  to  be  a  cham- 
pion. So,  at  least,  I  have  been  told  by 
wine -merchants  and  dog-fanciers — the 
most  veracious  persons  that  can  be.  For- 
tunately for  the  world,  and  especially  for 
ourselves,  most  of  us  have  in  our  veins 
at  least  a  minim  of  that  precious  fluid, 
whether  we  know  it  or  show  it  or  not. 
Tant  pis  pour  les  autres  ! 

As  Little  Billee  munched  he  also  gazed 
at  the  busy  place  below — the  Place  St. 
Anatole  des  Arts — at  the  old  houses  op- 
posite, some  of  which  were  being  pulled 
down,  no  doubt  lest  they  should  fall  of 
their  own  sweet  will.  In  the  gaps  be- 
tween he  would  see  discolored  old  cracked 
dingy  walls,  with  mysterious  windows 
and  rusty  iron  balconies  of  great  antiqui- 
ty—sights that  set  him  dreaming  dreams 
of  mediaeval  French  love  and  wickedness 
and  crime,  by-gone  mysteries  of  Paris! 

One  gap  went  right  through  the  block, 
and  gave  him  a  glimpse  of  the  river,  the 
"Cite,"  and  the  ominous  old  Morgue;  a 
little  to  the  right  rose  the  gray  towers  of 
Notre  Dame  de  Paris  into  the  checkered 
April  sky.  Indeed,  the  top  of  nearly  all 
Paris  lay  before  him,  with  a  little  stretch 
of  the  imagination  on  his  part;  and  he 
gazed  with  a  sense  of  novelty,  an  interest 
and  a  pleasure   for  which  he  could  not 


TRILBY. 


171 


have  found  any  expression  in  mere  lan- 
guage. 

Paris!     Paris!!     Paris!!! 

The  very  name  had  always  been  one  to 
conjure  with,  whether  lie  thought  of  it  as 
a  mere  sound  on  the  lips  and  in  the  ear, 
or  as  a  magical  written  or  printed  word 
for  the  eye.  And  here  was  the  thing 
itself  at  last,  and  he,  he  himself,  ipsissi- 
mus,  in  the  very  midst  of  it,  to  live  there 
and  learn  there  as  long  as  he  liked,  and 
make  himself  the  great  artist  he  longed 
to  be. 

Then,  his  meal  finished,  he  lit  a  pipe, 
and  flung  himself  on  the  divan  and  sighed 
deeply,  out  of  the  over-full  contentment 
of  his  heart. 

He  felt  he  had  never  known  happiness 
like  this,  never  even  dreamt  its  possibil- 
ity. And  yet  his  life  had  been  a  happy 
one.  He  was  young  and  tender,  was  Little 
Billee;  he  had  never  been  to  any  school, 
and  was  innocent  of  the  world  and  its 
wicked  ways;  innocent  of  French  espe- 
cially, and  the  ways  of  Paris  and  its  Latin 
quarter.  He  had  been  brought  up  and 
educated  at  home,  had  spent  his  boyhood 
in  London  with  his  mother  and  sister, 
who  now  lived  in  Devonshire  on  some- 
what straitened  means.  His  father,  who 
was  dead,  had  been  a  clerk  in  the  Trea- 
sury. 

He  and  his  two  friends,  Taffy  and  the 
Laird,  had  taken  this  studio  together. 
The  Laird  slept  there  in  a  small  bedroom 
off  the  studio.  Taffy  had  a  bedroom  at 
the  Hotel  de  Seine,  in  the  street  of  that 
name.  Little  Billee  lodged  at  the  Hotel 
Corneille,  in  the  Place  de  l'Odeon. 

He  looked  at  his  two  friends  and  won- 
dered if  any  one,  living  or  dead,  had  ever 
had  such  a  glorious  pair  of  chums  as 
these. 

Whatever  they  did,  whatever  they  said, 
was  simply  perfect  in  his  eyes ;  they  were 
his  guides  and  philosophers  as  well  as  his 
chums.  On  the  other  hand,  Taffy  and 
the  Laird  were  as  fond  of  the  boy  as  they 
could  be. 

His  absolute  belief  in  all  they  said  and 
did  touched  them  none  the  less  that  they 
were  conscious  of  its  being  somewhat  in 
excess  of  their  deserts.  His  almost  girlish 
purity  of  mind  amused  and  charmed  them, 
and  they  did  all  they  could  to  preserve 
it,  even  in  the  quartier  latin,  where  purity 
is  apt  to  go  bad  if  it  be  kept  too  long. 

They  loved  him  for  his  affectionate  dis- 
position, his  lively  and  caressing  ways; 


and  they  admired  him  far  more  than  he 
ever  knew,  for  they  recognized  in  him  a 
quickness,  a  keenness,  a  delicacy  of  per- 
ception, in  matters  of  form  and  color,  a 
mysterious  facility  and  felicity  of  execu- 
tion, a  sense  of  all  that  was  sweet  and 
beautiful  in  nature,  and  a  ready  power  of 
expressing  it,  that  had  not  been  vouchsafed 
to  them  in  any  such  generous  profusion, 
and  which,  as  they  ungrudgingly  admitted 
to  themselves  and  each  other,  amounted 
to  true  genius. 

And  when  one  within  the  immediate 
circle  of  our  intimates  is  gifted  in  this 
abnormal  fashion,  we  either  hate  or  love 
him  for  it,  in  proportion  to  the  greatness 
of  his  gift;  according  to  the  way  we  are 
built. 

So  Taffy  and  the  Laird  loved  Little 
Billee — loved  him  very  much  indeed.  Not 
but  what  Little  Billee  had  his  faults.  For 
instance,  he  didn't  interest  himself  very 
warmly  in  other  people's  pictures.  He 
didn't  seem  to  care  for  the  Laird's  guitar- 
playing  toreador,  nor  for  his  serenaded 
lady — at  all  events  he  never  said  any- 
thing about  them,  either  in  praise  or 
blame.  He  looked  at  Taffy's  realisms 
(for  Taffy  was  a  realist)  in  silence,  and 


'"IT   DID    ONE    GOOD    TO    LOOK    AT    HIM. 


172 


HARPER'S    NEW    MONTHLY   MAGAZINE. 


nothing  tries  true  friendship  so  much  as 
silence  of  this  kind. 

But,  then,  to  make  up  for  it,  when  they 
all  three  went  to  the  Louvre,  he  didn't 
seem  to  trouble  much  about  Titian  either, 
or  Rembrandt,  or  Velasquez,  Rubens,  Ve- 
ronese, or  Leonardo.  He  looked  at  the 
people  who  looked  at  the  pictures,  instead 
of  at  the  pictures  themselves;  especially 
at  the  people  who  copied  them,  the  some- 
times charming  young  lady  painters— and 
these  seemed  to  him  even  more  charming 
than  they  really  were— and  he  looked  a 
great  deal  out  of  the  Louvre  windows, 
where  there  was  much  to  be  seen :  more 
Paris,  for  instance — Paris,  of  which  he 
could  never  have  enough. 

But  when,  surfeited  with  classical  beau- 
ty, they  all  three  went  and  dined  together, 
and  Taffy  and  the  Laird  said  beautiful 
things  about  the  old  masters,  and  quar- 
relled about  them,  he  listened  with  defer- 
ence and  rapt  attention,  and  reverentially 
agreed  with  all  they  said,  and  afterwards 
made  the  most  delightfully  funny  little 
pen-and-ink  sketches  of  them,  saying  all 
these  beautiful  things  (which  he  sent  to 
his  mother  and  sister  at  home) ;  so  lif  el  ike, 
so  real,  that  you  could  almost  hear  the 
beautiful  things  they  said;  so  beautiful- 
ly drawn  that  you  felt  the  old  masters 
couldn't  have  drawn  them  better  them- 
selves; and  so  irresistibly  droll  that  you 
felt  that  the  old  masters  could  not  have 
drawn  them  at  all — any  more  than  Mil- 
ton could  have  described  the  quarrel  be- 
tween Sairey  Gamp  and  Betsy  Prig;  no 
one,  in  short,  but  Little  Billee. 

Little  Billee  took  up  the  "Ballad  of 
Bouillabaisse"  where  the  Laird  had  left 
it  off,  and  speculated  on  the  future  of 
himself  and  his  friends,  when  he  should 
have  got  to  forty  years— an  almost  im- 
possibly remote  future. 

These  speculations  were  interrupted  by 
a  loud  knock  at  the  door,  and  two  men 
came  in. 

First,  a  tall  bony  individual  of  any 
age  between  thirty  and  forty-five,  of  Jew- 
ish aspect,  well  featured  but  sinister.  He 
was  very  shabby  and  dirty,  and  wore  a 
red  b6ret  and  a  large  velveteen  cloak, 
with  a  big  metal  clasp  at  the  collar.  His 
thick,  heavy, languid,  lustreless  black  hair 
fell  down  behind  his  ears  on  to  his  shoul- 
ders, in  that  musicianliUe  way  that  is  so 
offensive  to  the  normal  Englishman.  He 
had  bold  brilliant  black  eyes  with  long 
heavy   lids,  a   thin    sallow    face,  and   a 


beard  of  burnt-up  black  which  grew  al- 
most from  his  under  eyelids;  and  over  it 
his  mustache,  a  shade  lighter,  fell  in  two 
long  spiral  twists.  He  went  by  the  name 
of  Svengali,  and  spoke  fluent  French 
with  a  German  accent,  and  humorous 
German  twists  and  idioms,  and  his  voice 
was  very  thin  and  mean  and  harsh,  and 
often  broke  into  a  disagreeable  falsetto. 

His  companion  was  a  little  swarthy 
young  man  —  a  gypsy,  possibly  —  much 
pitted  with  the  smallpox,  and  also  very 
shabby.  He  had  large  soft  affectionate 
brown  eyes,  like  a  King  Charles  spaniel. 
He  had  small  nervous  veiny  hands  with 
nails  bitten  down  to  the  quick,  and  car- 
ried a  fiddle  and  a  fiddlestick  under  his 
arm,  without  a  case,  as  though  he  had 
been  playing  in  the  street. 

"Ponchour,  mes  enfants,"  said  Sven- 
gali. "  Che  vous  amene  mon  ami  Checko, 
qui  choue  du  fiolon  gomme  un  anche!" 

Little  Billee,  who  adored  all  "sweet 
musicianers,"  jumped  up  and  made  Gecko 
as  warmly  welcome  as  he  could  in  his 
early  French. 

"Ha!  le  biano!"  exclaimed  Svengali, 
flinging  his  red  beret  on  it,  and  his  cloak 
on  the  ground.  "  Ch'espere  qu'il  est  pon, 
et  pien  t'accord!" 

And  sitting  down  on  the  music-stool, 
he  ran  up  and  down  the  scales  with  that 
easy  power,  that  smooth  even  crispness 
of  touch,  which  reveal  the  master. 

Then  he  fell  to  playing  Chopin's  im- 
promptu in  A  flat,  so  beautifully  that 
Little  Billee's  heart  went  nigh  to  bursting 
with  suppressed  emotion  and  delight. 
He  had  never  heard  any  music  of  Chopin's 
before,  nothing  but  British  provincial 
home-made  music  —  melodies  with  vari- 
ations, "  Annie  Laurie,"  "  The  Last  Rose 
of  Summer,"  "The  Blue  Bells  of  Scot- 
land," innocent  little  motherly  and  sister- 
ly tinklings,  invented  to  set  the  company 
at  their  ease  on  festive  evenings,  and 
make  all-round  conversation  possible  for 
shy  people,  who  fear  the  unaccompanied 
sound  of  their  own  voices,  and  whose 
genial  chatter  always  leaves  off  directly 
the  music  ceases. 

He  never  forgot  that  impromptu,  which 
he  was  destined  to  hear  again  one  day 
in  strange  circumstances. 

Tben  Svengali  and  Gecko  made  music 
together,  divinely.  Little  fragmentary 
things,  sometimes  consisting  but  of  a  few 
bars,  but  these  bars  of  such  beauty  and 
meaning!     Scraps,  snatches,  short  melo- 


TRILBY. 


173 


dies,  meant  to  fetch,  to  charm  immediate- 
ly, or  to  melt  or  sadden  or  madden  just 
for  a  moment,  and  that  knew  just  when 
to  leave  off — czardas,  gypsy  dances,  Hun- 
garian love-plaints,  things  little  known 
out  of  eastern  Europe  in  the  fifties  of  this 
century,  till  the  Laird  and  Taffy  were 
almost  as  wild  in  their  enthusiasm  as 
Little  Billee  —  a  silent  enthusiasm  too 
deep  for  speech.  And  when  these  two 
great  artists  left  off  to  smoke,  the  three 
Britishers  were  too  much  moved  even 
for  that,  and  there  was  a 
stillness. 

Suddenly  there  came  a 
loud  knuckle-rapping  at  the 
outer  door,  and  a  portentous 
voice  of  great  volume,  and 
that  might  almost  have  be- 
longed to  any  sex  (even  an 
angel's),  uttered  the  Brit- 
ish milkman's  yodel,  "Milk 
below !"  and  before  any 
one  could  say  "Entrez,"  a 
strange  figure  appeared, 
framed  by  the  gloom  of  the 
little  antechamber. 

It  was  the  figure  of  a 
very  tall  and  fully  devel- 
oped young  female,  clad  in 
the  gray  overcoat  of  a 
French  infantry  soldier, 
continued  netherwards  by 
a  short  striped  petticoat,  be- 
neath which  were  visible 
her  bare  white  ankles  and 
insteps,  and  slim,  straight, 
rosy  heels,  clean  cut  and 
smooth  as  the  back  of  a 
razor;  her  toes  lost  them- 
selves in  a  huge  pair  of 
male  list  slippers,  which 
made  her  drag  her  feet  as 
she  walked. 

She  bore  herself  with  easy 
unembarrassed  grace,  like 
a  person  whose  nerves  and 
muscles  are  well  in  tune, 
whose  spirits  are  high,  who 
has  lived  much  in  the  at- 
mosphere of  French  studios, 
and  feels  at  home  in  it. 

This  strange  medley  of 
garments  was  surmounted 
by  a  small  bare  head  with 
short,  thick,  wavy  brown 
hair,  and  a  very  healthy 
young  face,  which  could 
scarcely    be     called    quite 


beautiful  at  first  sight,  since  the  eyes  were 
too  wide  apart,  the  mouth  too  large,  the 
chin  too  massive,  the  complexion  a  mass 
of  freckles.  Besides,  you  can  never  tell 
how  beautiful  (or  how  ugly)  a  face  may 
be  till  you  have  tried  to  draw  it. 

But  a  small  portion  of  her  neck,  down 
by  the  collar-bone,  which  just  showed 
itself  between  the  unbuttoned  lapels  of 
her  military  coat  collar,  was  of  a  delicate 
privetlike  whiteness  that  is  never  to  be 
found  on  any  French  neck,  and  very  few 


AMONG   THE    OLD   MASTERS. 


174 


HARPER'S    NEW    MONTHLY    MAGAZINE. 


English  ones.  Also,  she  had  a  very  fine 
brow,  broad  and  low,  with  thick  level 
eyebrows  much  darker  than  her  hair,  a 
broad,  bony,  high  bridge  to  her  short  nose, 
and  her  full  broad  cheeks  were  beauti- 
fully modelled.  She  would  have  made  a 
singularly  handsome  boy. 

As  the  creature  looked  round  at  the  as- 
sembled company  and  flashed  her  big 
white  teeth  at  them  in  an  all-embracing 
smile  of  uncommon  width  and  quite  irre- 
sistible sweetness,  simplicity,  and  friendly 
trust,  one  saw  at  a  glance  that  she  was 
out  of  the  common  clever,  simple,  humor- 
ous, honest,  brave,  and  kind,  and  accus- 
tomed to  be  genially  welcomed  wherever 
she  went.  Then  suddenly  closing  the 
door  behind  her,  dropping  her  smile,  and 
looking  wistful  and  sweet,  with  her  head 
on  one  side  and  her  arms  akimbo,  "  Ye're 
all  English,  now,  aren't  ye?"  she  ex- 
claimed. 4 '  I  heard  the  music,  and  thought 
I'd  just  come  in  for  a  bit,  and  pass  the 
time  of  day:  you  don't  mind?  Trilby, 
that's  my  name— Trilby  O'Ferrall." 

She  said  this  in  English,  with  an  accent 
half  Scotch  and  certain  French  intona- 
tions, and  in  a  voice  so  rich  and  deep  and 
full  as  almost  to  suggest  an  incipient 
tenore  robusto;  and  one  felt  instinctively 
that  it  was  a  real  pity  she  wasn't  a  boy, 
she  would  have  made  such  a  jolly  one. 

"We're  delighted,  on  the  contrary," 
said  Little  Billee,  and  advanced  a  chair 
for  her. 

But  she  said,  "  Oh,  don't  mind  me;  go 
on  with  the  music,"  and  sat  herself  down 
cross-legged  on  the  model-throne  near 
the  piano. 

As  they  still  looked  at  her,  curious  and 
half  embarrassed,  she  pulled  a  paper  par- 
cel containing  food  out  of  one  of  the  coat 
pockets,  and  exclaimed : 

"I'll  just  take  a  bite,  if  you  don't  object; 
I'm  a  model,  you  know,  and  it's  just  rung 
twelve — '  the  rest. '  I'm  posing  for  Durien 
the  sculptor,  on  the  next  floor.  I  pose  to 
him  for  the  altogether." 

44  The  altogether?"  asked  Little  Billee. 

"  Yes— Ven8emble,  you  know— head, 
hands,  and  feet — everything — especially 
feet.  That's  my  foot,"  she  said,  kicking 
off  her  big  slipper  and  stretching  out  the 
limb.  "It's  the  handsomest  foot  in  all 
Paris.  There's  only  one  in  all  Paris  to 
match  it,  and  here  it  is,"  and  she  laughed 
heartily  (like  a  merry  peal  of  bells),  and 
stuck  out  the  other. 

And  in  truth  they  were  astonishingly 


beautiful  feet,  such  as  one  only  sees  in 
pictures  and  statues — a  true  inspiration  of 
shape  and  color,  all  made  up  of  delicate 
lengths  and  subtly  modulated  curves  and 
noble  straightnesses  and  happy  little 
dimpled  arrangements  in  innocent  young 
pink  and  white. 

So  that  Little  Billee,  who  had  the  quick 
prehensile  aesthetic  eye,  and  knew  by  the 
grace  of  Heaven  what  the  shapes  and 
sizes  and  colors  of  almost  every  bit  of 
man,  woman,  or  child  should  be  (and  so 
seldom  are),  was  quite  bewildered  to  find 
that  a  real  bare  live  human  foot  could  be 
such  a  charming  object  to  look  at,  and 
felt  that  such  a  base  or  pedestal  lent 
quite  an  antique  and  Olympian  dignity 
to  a  figure  that  seemed  just  then  rather 
grotesque  in  its  mixed  attire  of  military 
overcoat  and  female  petticoat,  and  no- 
thing else! 

Poor  Trilby ! 

The  shape  of  those  lovely  slender  feet 
(that  were  neither  large  nor  small),  fac- 
similed in  dusty  pale  plaster  of  Paris,  sur- 
vives on  the  shelves  and  walls  of  many 
a  studio  throughout  the  world,  and  many 
a  sculptor  yet  unborn  has  yet  to  marvel 
at  their  strange  perfection,  in  studious 
despair. 

For  when  Dame  Nature  takes  it  into 
her  head  to  do  her  very  best,  and  bestow 
her  minutest  attention  on  a  mere  detail, 
as  happens  now  and  then — once  in  a  blue 
moon,  perhaps — she  makes  it  uphill  work 
for  poor  human  art  to  keep  pace  with  her. 

It  is  a  wondrous  thing,  the  human  foot — 
like  the  human  hand;  even  more  so,  per- 
haps ;  but,  unlike  the  hand,  with  which  we 
are  so  familiar,  it  is  seldom  a  thing  of 
beauty  in  civilized  adults  who  go  about  in 
leather  boots  or  shoes. 

So  that  it  is  hidden  away  in  disgrace, 
a  thing  to  be  thrust  out  of  sight  and 
forgotten.  It  can  sometimes  be  very 
ugly,  indeed — the  ugliest  thing  there  is, 
even  in  the  fairest  and  highest  and  most 
gifted  of  her  sex;  and  then  it  is  of  an  ug- 
liness to  chill  and  kill  romance,  and  scat- 
ter young  love's  dream,  and  almost  break 
the  heart. 

And  all  for  the  sake  of  a  high  heel  and 
a  ridiculously  pointed  toe— mean  things 
at  the  best! 

Conversely,  when  Mother  Nature  has 
taken  extra  pains  in  the  building  of  it, 
and  proper  care  or  happy  chance  has 
kept  it  free  of  lamentable  deformations, 
indurations,  and  discoloration s — all  those 


WISTFUL,   AND   SWEET.' 


176 


HARPER'S    NEW    MONTHLY   MAGAZINE. 


grewsome  boot  -  begotten  abominations 
which  have  made  it  so  generally  unpop- 
ular—the sudden  sight  of  it,  uncovered, 
comes  as  a  very  rare  and  singularly  pleas- 
ing surprise  to  the  eye  that  has  learnt 
how  to  see! 

Nothing  else  that  Mother  Nature  has 
to  show,  not  even  the  human  face  divine, 
has  more  subtle  power  to  suggest  high 
physical  distinction,  happy  evolution,  and 
supreme  development,  the  lordship  of 
man  over  beast,  the  lordship  of  man  over 
man,  the  lordship  of  woman  over  all ! 

En  voila,  de  V  eloquence — d  propos  de 
bottes ! 

Trilby  had  respected  Mother  Nature's 
special  gift  to  herself — had  never  worn  a 
leather  boot  or  shoe,  had  always  taken 
as  much  care  of  her  feet  as  many  a  fine 
lady  takes  of  her  hands.  It  was  her  one 
coquetry,  the  only  real  vanity  she  had. 

Gecko,  his  fiddle  in  one  hand  and  his 
bow  in  the  other,  stared  at  her  in  open- 
mouthed  admiration  and  delight,  as  she 
ate  her  sandwich  of  soldier's  bread  and 
fromage  a  la  creme  quite  unconcerned. 

When  she  had  finished  she  licked  the 
tips  of  her  fingers  clean  of  cheese,  and 
produced  a  small  tobacco-pouch  from  an- 
other military  pocket,  and  made  herself  a 
cigarette,  and  lit  it  and  smoked  it,  inhal- 
ing the  smoke  in  large  whiffs,  filling  her 
lungs  with  it,  and  sending  it  back  through 
her  nostrils,  with  a  look  of  great  beatitude. 

Svengali  played  Schubert's  "  Rose- 
monde,"  and  flashed  a  pair  of  languish- 
ing black  eyes  at  her  with  intent  to  kill. 

But  she  didn't  even  look  his  way.  She 
looked  at  Little  Billee,  at  big  Taffy,  at 
the  Laird,  at  the  casts  and  studies,  at  the 
sky,  the  chimney-pots  over  the  way,  the 
towers  of  Notre  Dame,  just  visible  from 
where  she  sat. 

Only  when  he  finished  she  exclaim- 
ed: "Maie,  a'ie!  c'est  rudement  bien  tape, 
c'te  musique-la !  Seulement,  c'est  pas  gai, 
vous  savez!     Comment  q'ca  s'appelle?" 

"  It  is  called  the  'Rosemonde'  of  Schu- 
bert, matemoiselle,"  replied  Svengali.  (I 
will  translate.) 

"And  what's  that, Rosemonde?"  said  she. 

"Rosemonde  was  a  princess  of  Cyprus, 
matemoiselle,  and  Cyprus  is  an  island." 

"Ah,  and  Schubert,  then — where's 
that?" 

"Schubert  is  not  an  island,  matemoi- 
selle. Schubert  was  a  compatriot  of  mine, 
and  made  music,  and  played  the  piano, 
just  like  me." 


"Ah,  Schubert  was  a  monsieur,  then. 
Don't  know  him;  never  heard  his  name." 

"  That  is  a  pity,  matemoiselle.  He  had 
some  talent.  You  like  this  better,  per- 
haps," and  he  strummed, 

"Messieurs  les  etudiants, 
Montez  k  la  chaumiere 
Pour  y  danser  le  cancan," 

striking  wrong  notes,  and  banging  out  a 
bass  in  a  different  key,  a  hideously  gro- 
tesque performance. 

"Yes,  I  like  that  better.  It's  gayer, 
you  know.  Is  that  also  composed  by  a 
compatriot  of  yours?"  asked  the  lady. 

"Heaven  forbid,  matemoiselle." 

And  the  laugh  was  against  Svengali. 

But  the  real  fun  of  it  all  (if  there  was 
any)  lay  in  the  fact  that  she  was  perfect- 
ly sincere. 

"Are  you  fond  of  music?"  asked  Little 
Billee. 

"Oh,  ain't  I,  just!"  she  replied.  "My 
father  sang  like  a  bird.  He  was  a  gentle- 
man and  a  scholar,  my  father  was.  His 
name  was  Patrick  Michael  O'Ferrall,  fel- 
low of  Trinity,  Cambridge.  He  used  to 
sing  'Ben  Bolt.'  Do  you  know  'Ben 
Bolt'?" 

"Oh  yes,  I  know  it  well,"  said  Little 
Billee.      "  It's  a  very  pretty  song." 

"I  can  sing  it,"  said  Miss  O'Ferrall. 
"Shall  I?" 

"Oh,  certainly,  if  you  will  be  so  kind." 

Miss  O'Ferrall  threw  away  the  end  of 
her  cigarette,  put  her  hands  on  her  knees 
as  she  sat  cross-legged  on  the  model- 
throne,  and  sticking  her  elbows  well  out, 
she  looked  up  to  the  ceiling  with  a  tender 
sentimental  smile,  and  sang  the  touching 
song, 

"Oh,  don't  you  remember  sweet  Alice,  Ben  Bolt? 
Sweet  Alice,  with  hair  so  brown?"  etc.,  etc. 

As  some  things  are  too  sad  and  too  deep 
for  tears,  so  some  things  are  too  grotesque 
and  too  funny  for  laughter.  Of  such  a 
kind  was  Miss  O'Ferrall's  performance  of 
"Ben  Bolt." 

From  that  capacious  mouth  and 
through  that  high  -  bridged  bony  nose 
there  rolled  a  volume  of  breathy  sound, 
not  loud,  but  so  immense  that  it  seemed 
to  come  from  all  round,  to  be  reverber- 
ated from  every  surface  in  the  studio. 
She  followed  more  or  less  the  shape  of 
the  tune,  going  up  when  it  rose  and  down 
when  it  fell,  but  with  such  immense  in- 
tervals between  the  notes  as  were  never 
dreamed  of  in  any  mortal  melody.  It 
was  as  though  she  could  never  once  have 


TRILBY. 


177 


deviated  into  tune,  never  once  have  hit 
upon  a  true  note,  even  by  a  fluke  —  in 
fact,  as  though  she  were  absolutely  tone- 
deaf,  and  without  ear,  although  she  stuck 
to  the  time  correctly  enough. 

She  finished  her  song  amidst  an  em- 
barrassed silence.  The  audience  didn't 
quite  know  whether  it  was  meant  for  fun 
or  seriously.  One  wondered  if  she  were 
not  paying  out  Svengali  for  his  imperti- 
nent performance  of  "Messieurs  les  etu- 
diants."  If  so,  it  was  a  capital  piece  of 
impromptu  tit  for  tat  admirably  acted, 
and   a   very    ugly   gleam    yellowed   the 


seven  times  running  in  lots  of  studios.  I 
vary  it,  you  know — not  the  words,  but  the 
tune.  You  must  remember  that  I've  only 
taken  to  it  lately.  Do  you  know  Litolff? 
Well,  he's  a  great  composer,  and  he  came 
to  Durien's  the  other  day,  and  I  sang  '  Ben 
Bolt,'  and  what  do  you  think  he  said? 
Why,  he  said  Madame  Alboni  couldn't  go 
nearly  so  high  or  so  low  as  I  did,  and  that 
her  voice  wasn't  half  so  strong.  He  gave 
me  his  word  of  honor.  He  said  I  breathed 
as  natural  and  straight  as  a  baby,  and  all 
I  want  is  to  get  my  voice  a  little  more 
under  control.     That's  what  he  said." 


THE  "  ROSEMONDE   OF  SCHUBERT. 


tawny  black  of  Svengali's  big  eyes.  He 
was  so  fond  of  making  fun  of  others  that 
he  particularly  resented  being  made  fun 
of  himself — couldn't  endure  that  any  one 
should  ever  have  the  laugh  of  him. 

At  length  Little  Billee  said:  "Thank 
you  so  much.     It  is  a  capital  song." 

' '  Yes, "  said  Miss  O'Ferrall.  ' k  It's  the 
only  song  I  know,  unfortunately.  My 
father  used  to  sing  it,  just  like  that,  when 
he  felt  jolly  after  hot  rum  and  water.  It 
used  to  make  people  cry;  he  used  to  cry 
over  it  himself.  JT  never  do.  Some  peo- 
ple think  I  can't  sing  a  bit.  All  I  can 
say  is  that  I've  often  had  to  sing  it  six  or 


"  Qu'est-ce  qu'elle  dit?"  asked  Svengali. 
And  she  said  it  all  over  again  to  him  in 
French — quite  French  French  —  of  the 
most  colloquial  kind.  Her  accent  was  not 
that  of  the  Comedie  Frangaise,  nor  yet 
that  of  the  Faubourg  St. -Germain,  nor 
yet  that  of  the  pavement.  It  was  quaint 
and  expressive — "funny  without  being 
vulgar." 

"Barpleu!  he  was  right,  Litolff,"  said 
Svengali.  "I  assure  you,  matemoiselle, 
that  I  have  never  heard  a  voice  that  can 
equal  yours;  you  have  a  talent  quite  ex- 
ceptional." 

She  blushed   with    pleasure,   and    the 


178 


HARPERS  NEW   MONTHLY  MAGAZINE. 


others  thought  him  a  "beastly  cad"  for 
poking  fun  at  the  poor  girl  in  such  a  way. 
And  they  thought  Monsieur  Litolff  an- 
other. 

She  then  got  up  and  shook  the  crumbs 
off  her  coat,  and  slipped  her  feet  into  Du- 
rien's  slippers,  saying,  in  English:  "Well, 
I've  got  to  go  back.  Life  ain't  all  beer 
and  skittles,  and  more's  the  pity;  but 
what's  the  odds,  so  long  as  you're  happy?" 

On  her  way  out  she  stopped  before 
Taffy's  picture  —  a  chiffon nier  with  his 
lantern  bending  over  a  dust  heap.  For 
Taffy  was,  or  thought  himself,  a  passion- 
ate realist  in  those  days.  He  has  changed, 
and  now  paints  nothing  but  King  Arthurs 
and  Guineveres  and  Lancelots  and  Elaines 
and  floating  Ladies  of  Shalott. 

"  Thatchiffonnier's  basket  isn't  hitched 
high  enough, "she  remarked.  "How  could 
he  tap  his  pick  against  the  rim  and  make 
the  rag  fall  into  it  if  it's  hitched  only  half- 
way up  his  back?  And  he's  got  the  wrong 
sabots,  and  the  wrong  lantern  ;  it's  all 
wrong." 

"Dear  me  !"  said  Taffy,  turning  very 
red;  "you  seem  to  know  a  lot  about  it. 
It's  a  pity  you  don't  paint,  yourself." 

"Ah I  now  you're  cross!"  said  Miss 
O'Ferrall.      "  Oh,  maie,  aie !" 

She  went  to  the  door  and  paused,  look- 
ing round  benignly.  "What  nice  teeth 
you've  all  three  got !  That's  because 
you're  Englishmen,  I  suppose,  and  clean 
them  twice  a  day.  I  do  too.  Trilby 
O'Ferrall,  that's  my  name,  48  Rue  des 
Pousse-Cailloux!— pose  pour  l'ensemble, 
quand  ca  l'amuse  !  va-t-en  ville,  et  fait 
tout  ce  qui  concerne  son  etat  !  Don't 
forget.     Thanks  all,  and  good-by." 

"En  v'la  une  orichinale,"  said  Sven- 
gali. 

"I  think  she's  lovely,"  said  Little  Bil- 
lee,  the  young  and  tender.  ' c  Oh,  heavens, 
what  angel's  feet!  It  makes  me  sick  to 
think  she  sits  for  the  figure.  I'm  sure 
she's  quite  a  lady." 

And  in  five  minutes  or  so,  with  the 
point  of  an  old  compass,  he  scratched  in 
white  on  the  dark  red  wall  a  three-quarter 
profile  outline  of  Trilby's  left  foot,  which 
was  perhaps  the  more  perfect  poem  of  the 
two. 

Slight  as  it  was,  this  little  piece  of  im- 
promptu etching,  in  its  sense  of  beauty, 
in  its  quick  seizing  of  a  peculiar  individu- 
ality, its  subtle  rendering  of  a  strongly 
received  impression,  was  already  the  work 
of  a  master.     It  was  Trilby's  foot,  and  no- 


body else's,  nor  could  have  been,  and  no- 
body else  but  Little  Billee  could  have 
drawn  it  in  just  that  inspired  way. 

"Qu'est-ce  que  c'est,  'Ben  Bolt'?  "in- 
quired Gecko. 

Upon  which  Little  Billee  was  made  by 
Taffy  to  sit  down  to  the  piano  and  sing  it. 
He  sang  it  very  nicely  with  his  pleasant 
little  throaty  English  barytone. 

It  was  solely  in  order  that  Little  Billee 
should  have  opportunities  of  practising 
this  graceful  accomplishment  of  his,  for 
his  own  and  his  friends'  delectation,  that 
the  piano  had  been  sent  over  from  Lon- 
don, at  great  cost  to  Taffy  and  the  Laird. 
It  had  belonged  to  Taffy's  mother,  who 
was  dead. 

Before  he  had  finished  the  second  verse, 
Svengali  exclaimed: 

"Mais  c'est  tout-a-fait  chentil !  Allons, 
Gecko,  chouez-nous  9a!" 

And  he  put  his  big  hands  on  the  piano, 
over  Little  Billee's,  pushed  him  off  the 
music-stool  with  his  great  gaunt  body, 
and  sitting  on  it  himself,  he  played  a 
masterly  prelude.  It  was  impressive  to 
hear  the  complicated  richness  and  vol- 
ume of  the  sounds  he  evoked  after  Little 
Billee's  gentle  "  tink-a-tink." 

And  Gecko,  cuddling  lovingly  his  vio- 
lin and  closing  his  upturned  eyes,  played 
that  simple  melody  as  it  had  probably  nev- 
er been  played  before — such  passion,  such 
pathos,  such  a  tone! — and  they  turned  it 
and  twisted  it,  and  wTent  from  one  key  to 
another,  playing  into  each  other's  hands, 
Svengali  taking  the  lead;  and  fugued  and 
canoned  and  counterpointed  and  battle- 
doored  and  shuttlecocked  it,  high  and  low, 
soft  and  loud,  in  minor,  in  pizzicato,  and 
in  sordino— adagio,  andante,  allegretto, 
scherzo— and  exhausted  all  its  possibilities 
of  beauty ;  till  their  susceptible  audience  of 
three  was  all  but  crazed  with  delight  and 
wonder;  and  the  masterful  Ben  Bolt,  and 
his  over-tender  Alice,  and  his  too  submis- 
sive friend,  and  his  old  school-master  so 
kind  and  so  true,  and  his  long-dead  school- 
mates, and  the  rustic  porch  and  the  mill, 
and  the  slab  of  granite  so  gray, 

"  And  the  dear  little  nook 
By  the  clear  running  brook," 

were  all  magnified  into  a  strange,  al- 
most holy  poetic  dignity  and  splendor 
quite  undreamt  of  by  whoever  wrote  the 
words  and  music  of  that  unsophisticated 
little  song,  which  has  touched  so  many 
simple  British  hearts  that  don't  know  any 


TRILBY. 


179 


better — and  among  them, 
once,  that  of  the  present 
scribe — long,  long  ago ! 

"Sacrepleu!  il  choue 
pien,  le  Checko,  hein  ?"  said 
Svengali,  when  they  had 
brought  this  wonderful 
double  improvisation  to  a 
climax  and  a  close.  "(Test 
mon  elefe !  che  le  fais 
chanter  sur  sonfiolon,  c'est 
com  me  si  c'etait  moi  qui 
chantais !  ach !  si  ch'afais 
pour  teux  sous  de  voix,  che 
serais  le  bremier  chanteur 
dumonte!  I  cannot  sing!" 
he  continued.  (I  will  trans- 
late him  into  English, with- 
out attempting  to  translate 
his  accent,  which  is  a  mere 
matter  of  judiciously  trans- 
posing p's  and  b's,  and  t's 
and  d's,  and  f's  and  v's,  and 
g's  and  k's,  and  turning  the 
soft  French  j  into  sch,  and 
a  pretty  language  into  an 
ugly  one.) 

"I  cannot  sing  myself, 
I  cannot  play  the  violin, 
but  I  can  teach — hein, 
Gecko?  And  I  have  a  pu- 
pil— hein,  Gecko? — la  be- 
tite  Honorine:"  and  here 
he  leered  all  round  with  a 
leer  that  was  not  engaging. 
"The  world  shall  hear  of 
la  betite  Honorine  some 
day — hein,  Gecko?  Listen 
all — this  is  how  I  teach  la 
betite  Honorine!  Gecko, 
play  me  a  little  accompa- 
niment in  pizzicato." 

And  he  pulled  out  of  his 
pocket  a  kind  of  little  flex- 
ible flageolet,  (of  his  own 
invention,  it  seems),  which 
he  screwed  together  and  put  to  his  lips, 
and  on  this  humble  instrument  he  played 
"Ben  Bolt,"  while    Gecko   accompanied 
him,  using  his  fiddle  as  a  guitar,  his  ador- 
ing eyes  fixed  in  reverence  on  his  master. 

And  it  would  be  impossible  to  render 
in  any  words  the  deftness,  the  distinction, 
the  grace,  power,  pathos,  and  passion  with 
which  this  truly  phenomenal  artist  exe- 
cuted the  poor  old  twopenny  tune  on  his 
elastic  penny  whistle— for  it  was  little 
more  —  such  thrilling,  vibrating,  piercing 
tenderness,   now  loud  and  full,  a  shrill 


TRILBY  S   LEFT   FOOT. 


scream  of  anguish,  now  soft  as  a  whisper, 
a  mere  melodic  breath,  more  human  al- 
most than  the  human  voice  itself,  a  per- 
fection unattainable  even  by  Gecko,  a 
master,  on  an  instrument  which  is  the  ac- 
knowledged king  of  all! 

So  that  the  tear  which  had  been  so 
close  to  the  brink  of  Little  Billee's  eye 
while  Gecko  was  playing,  now  rose  and 
trembled  under  his  eyelid  and  spilled  it- 
self down  his  nose ;  and  he  had  to  dissem- 
ble and  surreptitiously  mop  it  up  with 
his  little  finger  as  he  leant  his  chin  on 


180 


HARPER'S    NEW    MONTHLY    MAGAZINE. 


his  hand,  and  cough  a  little  husky  un- 
natural cough — pour  se  donner  une  con- 
tenance! 

He  had  never  heard  such  music  as  this, 
never  dreamt  such  music  was  possible. 
He  was  conscious,  while  it  lasted,  that  he 
saw  deeper  into  the  beauty,  the  sadness  of 
things,  the  very  heart  of  them,  and  their 
pathetic  evanescence,  as  with  a  new  inner 
eye— even  into  eternity  itself,  beyond  the 
veil  —  a  vague  cosmic  vision  that  faded 
when  the  music  was  over,  but  left  an  un- 
fading reminiscence  of  its  having  been, 
and  a  passionate  desire  to  express  the  like 
some  day  through  the  plastic  medium  of 
his  own  beautiful  art. 

When  Svengali  ended,  he  leered  again 
on  his  dumb-struck  audience,  and  said: 

"That  is  how  I  teach  la  betite  Hono- 
rine  to  sing;  that  is  how  I  teach  Gecko  to 
play;  that  is  how  I  teach  ' il  bel  canto^l 
It  was  lost,  the  bel  canto— but  I  found  it, 
in  a  dream — I,  and  nobody  else — I — Sven- 
gali—I — I — I!  But  that  is  enough  of 
music;  let  us  play  at  something  else — let 
us  play  at  this!"  he  cried,  jumping  up 
and  seizing  a  foil  and  bending  it  against 
the  wall ....  "  Come  along,  Little  Pillee, 
and  I  will  show  you  something  more  you 
don't  know. ..." 

So  Little  Billee  took  off  the  coat  and 
waistcoat,  donned  mask  and  glove  and 
fencing-shoes,  and  they  had  an  "assault 
of  arms,"  as  it  is  nobly  called  in  French, 
and  in  which  poor  Little  Billee  came  off 
very  badly.  The  German  Pole  fenced 
wildly,  but  well. 

Then  it  was  the  Laird's  turn,  and  he 
came  off  badly  too ;  so  then  Taffy  took  up 
the  foil,  and  redeemed  the  honor  of  Great 
Britain,  as  became  a  British  hussar  and  a 
Man  of  Blood.  For  Taffy,  by  long  and 
assiduous  practice  in  the  best  school  in 
Paris  (and  also  by  virtue  of  his  native 
aptitudes),  was  a  match  for  any  maitre 
d'armes  in  the  whole  French  army,  and 
Svengali  got  "  what  for." 

And  when  it  was  time  to  give  up  play 
and  settle  down  to  work,  others  dropped 
in  —  French,  English,  Swiss,  German, 
American,  Greek;  curtains  were  drawn 
and  shutters  opened ;  the  studio  was  flood- 
ed with  light, — and  the  afternoon  was 
healthily  spent  in  athletic  and  gymnastic 
exercises,  till  dinner-time. 

But  Little  Billee,  who  had  had  enough 
of  fencing  and  gymnastics  for  the  day, 
amused  himself  by  filling  up  with  black 
and  white  and  red  chalk  strokes  the  out- 


line of  Trilby's  foot  on  the  wall,  lest  he 
should  forget  his  fresh  vision  of  it,  which 
was  still  to  him  as  the  thing  itself — an 
absolute  reality,  born  of  a  mere  glance, 
a  mere  chance. 

Durien  came  in  and  looked  over  his 
shoulder,  and  exclaimed, 

"Tiens!  le  pied  de  Trilby!  vous  avez 
fait  ga  d'apres  nature?" 

"Nong!" 

"De  memoire,  alors?" 

"Wee!" 

"Je  vous  en  fais  mon  compliment! 
Vous  avez  eu  la  main  heureuse.  Je  vou- 
drais  bien  avoir  fait  9a,  moi!  Cest  un 
petit  chef-d'oeuvre  que  vous  avez  fait  la — 
tout  bonnement,  mon  cher  !  Mais  vous 
elaborez  trop.  De  grace,  n'y  touchez 
plus!" 

And  Little  Billee  was  pleased,  and 
touched  it  no  more;  for  Durien  was  a 
great  sculptor,  and  sincerity  itself. 

And  then — well,  I  happen  to  forget 
what  sort  of  day  this  particular  day 
turned  into  at  about  six  of  the  clock. 

If  it  was  decently  fine,  the  most  of 
them  went  off  to  dine  at  the  "Restaurant 
de  la  Couronne,"  kept  by  the  Pere  Trin, 
in  the  Rue  de  Monsieur,  who  gave  you  of 
his  best  to  eat  and  drink  for  twenty  sols 
Parisis,  or  one  franc  in  the  coin  of  the 
empire.  Good  distending  soups,  omelets 
that  were  only  too  savory,  lentils,  red 
and  white  beans,  meat  so  dressed  and 
sauced  and  seasoned  that  you  didn't 
know  whether  it  was  beef  or  mutton — 
flesh,  fowl,  or  good  red  herring — or  even 
bad,  for  that  matter — nor  very  greatly 
care. 

And  just  the  same  lettuce,  radishes, 
and  cheese  of  Gruyere  or  Brie  as  you 
got  at  the  "Trois  Freres  Provencaux" 
(but  not  the  same  butter!). 

And  to  wash  it  all  down,  generous 
wine  in  wooden  "brocs"— that  stained  a 
lovely  aesthetic  blue  everything  it  was 
spilt  over. 

And  you  hobnobbed  with  models,  male 
and  female,  students  of  law  aud  medi- 
cine, painters  and  sculptors,  workmen  and 
blanchisseuses  and  grisettes,  and  found 
them  very  good  company,  and  most  im- 
proving to  your  French,  if  your  French 
was  of  the  usual  British  kind,  and  even 
to  some  of  your  manners,  if  these  were 
very  British  indeed.  And  the  even- 
ing was  innocently  wound  up  with  bill- 
iards, cards,  or  dominoes  at  the  Cafe  du 


0\^v 


THE    FLEXIBLE    FLAGEOLET. 


Luxembourg  opposite;  or  at  the  Theatre 
du  Luxembourg-  in  the  Rue  de  Madame, 
to  see  funny  farces  with  screamingly  droll 
Englishmen  in  them  ;  or,  still  better,  at  the 
Jardin  Bullier  (la  Closerie  des  Lilas),  to 
see  the  students  dance  the  cancan,  or  try 
and  dance  it  yourself,  which  is  not  so  easy 
as  it  seems;  or,  best  of  all,  at  the  Theatre 
de  l'Odeon,  to  see  Fechter  and  Madame 
Doche  in  the  Dame  aux  Camelias. 

Or,  if  it  were  not  only  fine,  but  a 
Saturday  afternoon  into  the  bargain,  the 
Laird  would  put  on  a  necktie  and  a  few 
other  necessary  things,  and  the  three 
friends  would  walk  arm  in  arm  to  Taf- 
fy's hotel  in  the  Rue  de  Seine,  and  wait 
outside  till  he  had  made  himself  as  pre- 
sentable as  the  Laird,  which  did  not  take 
very  long.  And  then  (Little  Billee  was 
always  presentable)  they  would,  arm  in 
arm,  the  huge  Taffy  in  the  middle,  de- 
scend the  Rue  de  Seine  and  cross  a 
bridge  to  the  Cite,  and  have  a  look  in  at 
the  Morgue.  Then  back  again  to  the 
quays  on  the  rive  gauche  by  the  Pont 
Neuf,  to  wend  their  way  westward;  now 
on  one  side  to  look  at  the  print  and  pic- 
ture shops  and  the  magasins  of  bric-a- 
brac,  and  haply  sometimes  buy  thereof, 
now  on  the  other  to  finger  and  cheapen 
the   second-hand   books   for   sale  on  the 


parapet,  and  even  pick  up  one  or  two 
utterly  unwanted  bargains,  never  to  be 
read  or  opened  again. 

When  they  reached  the  Pont  des  Arts 
they  would  cross  it,  stopping  in  the 
micldle  to  look  up  the  river  towards  the 
old  Cite  and  Notre  Dame,  eastward,  and 
dream  unutterable  things,  and  try  to 
utter  them.  Then,  turning  westward, 
they  would  gaze  at  the  glowing  sky  and 
all  it  glowed  upon — the  corner  of  the 
Tuileries  and  the  Louvre,  the  many 
bridges,  the  Chamber  of  Deputies,  the 
golden  river  narrowing  its  perspective 
and  broadening  its  bed  as  it  went  flowing 
and  winding  on  its  way  between  Passy 
andGrenelle  toSt.-Cloud,toRouen,  to  the 
Havre,  to  England  perhaps — where  they 
didn't  want  to  be  just  then;  and  they 
would  try  and  express  themselves  to  the 
effect  that  life  was  uncommonly  well 
worth  living  in  that  particular  city  at 
that  particular  time  of  the  day  and  year 
and  century,  at  that  particular  epoch  of 
their  own  mortal  and  uncertain  lives. 

Then,  still  arm  in  arm  and  chatting 
gayly,across  the  court-yard  of  the  Louvre, 
through  gilded  gates  well  guarded  by 
reckless  imperial  Zouaves,  up  the  arcaded 
Rue  de  Rivoli  as  far  as  the  Rue  Castigli- 
one,  where  they  would  stare  with  greedy 
eyes  at  the  window  of  the  great  corner 


182 


HARPER'S    NEW    MONTHLY    MAGAZINE. 


THREE  MUSKETEERS  OF  THE  BRUSH. 


pastry-cook,  and  marvel  at  the  beautiful 
assortment  of  bonbons,  pralines,  dragees, 
marrons  glaces —  saccharine,  crystalline 
substances  of  all  kinds  and  colors,  as 
charming  to  look  at  as  an  illumination; 
precious  stones,  delicately  frosted  sweets, 
pearls  and  diamonds  so  arranged  as  to 
melt  in  the  mouth;  especially,at  this  par- 
ticular time  of  the  year,  the  monstrous 
Easter-eggs  of  enchanting  hue,  enshrined 
like  costly  jewels  in  caskets  of  satin  and 
gold;  and  the  Laird,  who  was  well  read 
in  his  English  classics  and  liked  to  show 
it,  would  opine  that  "  they  managed  these 
things  better  in  France." 

Then  across  the  street  by  a  great  gate 
into  the  A116e  des  Feuillants,  and  up  to 
the  Place  de  la  Concorde — to  gaze,  but 
quite  without  base  envy,  at  the  smart 
people  coming  back  from  the  Bois  de 
Boulogne.  For  even  in  Paris  "carriage 
people  "  have  a  way  of  looking  bored,  of 
taking  their  pleasure  sadly,  of  having 
nothing  to  say  to  each  other,  as  though 


the  vibration  of  so  many 
wheels  all  rolling  home 
the  same  way  every  after- 
noon had  hypnotized  them 
into  silence,  idiotcy,  and 
melancholia. 

And  our  three  musket- 
eers of  the  brush  would 
speculate  on  the  vanity  of 
wealth  and  rank  and  fash- 
ion; on  the  satiety  that  fol- 
lows in  the  wake  of  self- 
indulgence  and  overtakes 
it ;  on  the  weariness  of  the 
pleasures  that  become  a 
toil,— as  if  they  knew  all 
about  it,  had  found  it  all 
out  for  themselves,  and 
nobody  else  had  ever 
found  it  out  before ! 

Then    they   found   out 
something    else,   namely, 
that  the  sting  of  healthy 
appetite  was  becoming  in- 
tolerable;  so  they  would 
betake   themselves  to  an 
English  eating-house   in 
the  Rue  de  la  Madeleine 
(on  the  left-hand  side  near 
the  top), where  they  would 
renovate    their    strength 
and    their  patriotism    on 
British     beef     and    beer, 
and  household  bread,  and 
bracing,    biting,   stinging 
yellow  mustard,  and  horseradish,  and  no- 
ble apple  pie,  and  Cheshire  cheese;  and  get 
through  as  much  of  these  in  an  hour  or  so 
as  they  could  for  talking,  talking,  talking, 
such  happy  talk,  as  full  of  sanguine  hope 
and  enthusiasm,  of  cocksure  commenda- 
tion or  condemnation  of  all  painters,  dead 
or  alive,  of  modest  but  firm  belief  in  them- 
selves and  each  other,  as  a  Paris  Easter- 
egg  is  full  of  sweets  aud  pleasantness  (for 
the  young). 

And  then  a  stroll  on  the  crowded,  well- 
lighted  boulevards,  and  a  bock  at  a  cafe 
there,  at  a  little  three-legged  marble  table 
right  out  on  the  genial  asphalt  pavement, 
still  talking  nineteen  to  the  dozen. 

Then  home  by  dark  old  silent  streets 
and  some  deserted  bridge  to  their  beloved 
Latin  quarter,  the  Morgue  gleaming  cold 
and  still  and  fatal  in  the  pale  lamp-light, 
and  Notre  Dame  pricking  up  its  watchful 
twin  towers,  which  have  looked  down  for 
so  many  centuries  on  so  many  happy, 
sanguine,  expansive  youths  walking  arm 


TRILBY. 


183 


in  arm  by  twos  and  threes,  and  forever 
talking,  talking,  talking.  .  .  . 

The  Laird  and  Little  Billee  would  see 
Taffy  safe  to  the  door  of  his  hotel  garni 
in  the  Rue  de  Seine,  where  they  would 
find  much  to  say  to  each  other  before 
they  said  good-night— so  much  that  Taffy 
and  Little  Billee  would  see  the  Laird  safe 
to  his  door,  in  the  Place  St.  Anatole  des 
Arts.  And  then  a  discussion  would  arise 
between  Taffy  and  the  Laird  on  the  im- 
mortality of  the  soul,  let  us  say,  or  the 
exact  meaning  of  the  word  "gentleman," 
or  the  relative  merits  of  Dickens  and 
Thackeray,  or  some  such  recondite  and 
quite  unhackneyed  theme,  and  Taffy  and 
the  Laird  would  escort  Little  Billee  to 
his  door,  in  the  Place  de  l'Odeon,  and  he 
would  re-escort  them  both  back  again, 
and  so  on  till  any  hour  you  please. 

Or  again,  if  it  rained,  and  Paris  through 
the  studio  window  loomed  lead-colored, 
with  its  shiny  slate  roofs  under  skies  that 
were  ashen  and  sober,  and  the  wild  west 
wind  made  wof  ul  music  among  the  chim- 
ney-pots, and  little  gray  waves  ran  up  the 
river  the  wrong  way,  and  the  Morgue 
looked  chill  and  dark  and  wet,  and  al- 
most uninviting  (even  to  three  healthy- 
minded  young  Britons),  they  would  re- 
solve to  dine  and  spend  a  happy  evening 
at  home. 

Little  Billee,  taking  with  him  three 
francs  (or  even  four),  would  dive  into  back 
streets  and  buy  a  yard  or  so  of  crusty  new 
bread,  well  burnt  on  the  flat  side,  a  fillet 
of  beef,  a  litre  of  wine,  potatoes  and  on- 
ions, butter,  a  little  cylindrical  cheese 
called  "  bondon  de  Neufcbatel,"  tender 
curly  lettuce,  with  chervil,  parsley,  spring 
onions,  and  other  fine  herbs,  and  a  pod  of 
garlic,  which  would  be  rubbed  on  a  crust 
of  bread  to  flavor  things  with. 

Taffy  would  lay  the  cloth  Englishwise, 
and  also  make  the  salad,  for  which,  like 
everybody  else  I  ever  met,  he  had  a  special 
receipt  of  his  own  (putting  in  the  oil  first 
and  the  vinegar  after) ;  and  indeed  his 
salads  were  quite  as  good  as  everybody 
else's. 

The  Laird, bending  over  the  stove,  would 
cook  the  onions  and  beef  into  a  savory 
Scotch  mess  so  cunningly  that  you  could 
not  taste  the  beef  for  the  onions — nor  al- 
ways the  onions  for  the  garlic! 

And  they  would  dine  far  better  than 
at  le  Pere  Trin's,  far  better  than  at  the 
English    Restaurant   in   the    Rue    de    la 

Vol.  LXXXVIII.— No.  524.— 16 


Madeleine— better  than  anywhere  else  on 
earth ! 

And  after  dinner,  what  coffee,  roasted 
and  ground  on  the  spot,  what  pipes  and 
cigarettes  of  "caporal,"  by  the  light  of 
the  three  shaded  lamps,  while  the  rain 
beat  against  the  big  north  window,  and 
the  wind  went  howling  round  the  quaint 
old  mediaeval  tower  at  the  corner  of  the 
Rue  Vieille  des  Mauvais  Ladres  (the  old 
street  of  the  bad  lepers),  and  the  damp 
logs  hissed  and  crackled  in  the  stove! 

What  jolly  talk  into  the  small  hours! 
Thackeray  and  Dickens  again,  and  Ten- 
nyson and  Byron  (who  was  "not  dead 
yet "  in  those  days) ;  and  Titian  and  Ve- 


TAFFY   MAKES   THE    SALAD. 


lasquez,  and  young  Millais  and  Holman 
Hunt  (just  out) ;  and  Monsieur  Ingres 
and  Monsieur  Delacroix,  and  Balzac  and 
Stendahl  and  George  Sand ;  and  the  good 
Dumas!  and  Edgar  Allan  Poe;  and  the 
glory  that  was  Greece  and  the  grandeur 
that  was  Rome.  .  .  . 

Good,  honest,  innocent,  artless  prattle — 
not  of  the  wisest  perhaps,  nor  redolent  of 
the  very  highest  culture  (which,  by-the- 
wav,  can  mar  as  well  as  make),  nor  lead- 


184 


HARPER'S    NEW    MONTHLY    MAGAZINE. 


ing  to  any  very  practical  result;  but  quite 
pathetically  sweet  from  the  sincerity  and 
fervor  of  its  convictions,  a  profound 
belief  in  their  importance,  and  a  proud 
confidence  in  their  life-long  immutability. 

Oh,  happy  days,  and  happy  nights, 
sacred  to  art  and  friendship!  oh,  happy 
times  of  careless  impecuniosity,  and  youth 
and  hope  and  health  and  strength  and 
freedom — with  all  Paris  for  a  play-ground, 
and  its  dear  old  un regenerate  Latin 
quarter  for  a  workshop  and  a  home ! 

And,  up  to  then,  no  kill-joy  complica- 
tions of  love! 

No,  decidedly  no!  Little  Billee  had 
never  known  such  happiness  as  this — 
never  even  dreamt  of  its  possibility. 

A  day  or  two  after  this,  our  opening 
day,  but  in  the  afternoon,  when  the  fen- 
cing and  boxing  had  begun  and  the  tra- 
peze was  in  full  swing,  Trilby's  "milk 
below"  was  sounded  at  the  door,  and  she 
appeared — clothed  this  time  in  her  right 
mind,  as  it  seemed:  a  tall,  straight,  flat- 
backed,  square -shouldered,  deep -chested, 
full-bosomed  young  grisette,  in  a  snowy 
frilled  cap,  a  neat  black  gown  and  white 
apron,  pretty  faded  well -darned  brown 
stockings,  and  well-worn  soft  gray  square- 
toed  slippers  of  list,  without  heels  and 
originally  shapeless,  but  which  her  feet, 
uncompromising  and  inexorable  as  boot- 
trees,  had  ennobled  into  everlasting  classic 
shapeliness,  and  stamped  with  an  unfor- 
gettable individuality,  as  does  a  beautiful 
hand  its  well-worn  glove — a  fact  Little 
Billee  was  not  slow  to  perceive,  with  a 
curious  conscious  thrill  that  was  only 
half  aesthetic. 

Then  he  looked  into  her  freckled  face 
and  met  the  kind  and  tender  mirthful- 
ness  of  her  gaze  and  the  plucky  frank- 
ness of  her  fine  wide  smile  with  a  thrill 
that  was  not  aesthetic  at  all  (nor  the  re- 
verse), but  all  of  the  heart.  And  in 
one  of  his  quick  flashes  of  intuitive  in- 
sight he  divined  far  down  beneath  the 
shining  surface  of  those  eyes  (which 
seemed  for  a  moment  to  reflect  only  a 
little  image  of  himself  against  the  sky 
beyond  the  big  north  window)  a  well  of 
sweetness;  and  floating  somewhere  in  the 
midst  of  it  the  very  heart  of  compassion, 
generosity,  and  warm  sisterly  love;  and 
under  that — alas!  at  the  bottom  of  all — a 
thin  slimy  layer  of  sorrow  and  shame. 
And  just  as  long  as  it  takes  for  a  tear  to 
rise   and   gather   and  choke   itself  back 


again,  this  sudden  revelation  shook  his 
nervous  little  frame  with  a  pang  of  pity, 
and  the  knightly  wish  to  help.  But  he 
had  no  time  to  indulge  in  such  soft  emo- 
tions. Trilby  was  met  on  her  entrance 
by  friendly  greetings  on  all  sides. 

"Tiens!  c'est  la  grande  Trilby!"  ex- 
claimed Jules  Guinot  through  his  fencing- 
mask.  "Comment!  t'es  deja  debout  apres 
hier  soir?  Avons-nous  assez  rigole  chez 
Mathieu,  hein?  Crenom  d'un  nom,  quelle 
noce!  Via  une  cremaillere  qui  peut  se 
vanter  d'etre  diantrement  bien  pendue, 
j'espere!     Et  la  petite  sante,  c'  matin?" 

4 '  He,  he !  mon  vieux, "  answered  Trilby. 
"  Qa  boulotte,  apparemment!  Et  toi?  et 
Victorine?  Comment  qu'a  s'  porte  a  c't'- 
heure?  Elle  avait  un  tier  coup  d'chasselas ! 
c'est-y  jobard,  hein?  de  s'  fich  'paf  comme 
9a  d'vant  1'  monde!  Tiens,  v'la,  Gontranl 
c.a  marche-t-y,  Gontran,  Zouzou  d'  mon 
coeur?" 

"  Comme  sur  des  roulettes,  ma  biche!" 
said  Gontran,  alias  V  Zouzou — a  corporal 
in  the  Zouaves.  "  Mais  tu  t'es  done  mise 
chilfonniere,  a  present  ?  T'as  fait  ban- 
queroute?" 

(For  Trilby  had  a  chiffonnier's  basket 
strapped  on  her  back,  and  carried  a  pick 
and  lantern.) 

"Mais-z-oui,  mon  bon  !"  she  said. 
"Dame!  pas  d'  veine  hier  soir!  t'as  bien 
vu !  Dans  la  deche  jusqu'aux  omoplates, 
mon  pauv'  caporal-sous-off !  nom  d'un 
canon — faut  bien  vivre,  s'  pas?" 

Little  Billee's  heart  sluices  had  closed 
during  this  interchange  of  courtesies.  He 
felt  it  to  be  of  a  very  slangy  kind,  because 
he  couldn't  understand  a  word  of  it,  and 
he  hated  slang.  All  he  could  make  out 
was  the  free  use  of  the  "tu"  and  the 
"toi,"  and  he  knew  enough  French  to 
know  that  this  implied  a  great  familiarity, 
which  he  misunderstood. 

So  that  Jules  Guinot's  polite  inquiries 
whether  Trilby  were  none  the  worse  after 
Mathieu's  house-warming  (which  was  so 
jolly),  Trilby's  kind  solicitude  about  the 
health  of  Victorine,  who  had  very  fool- 
ishly taken  a  drop  too  much  on  that  oc- 
casion, Trilby's  mock  regrets  that  her  own 
bad  luck  at  cards  had  made  it  necessary 
that  she  should  retrieve  her  fallen  for- 
tunes by  rag-picking — all  these  innocent, 
playful  little  amenities  (which  I  have 
tried  to  write  down  just  as  they  were 
spoken)  were  couched  in  a  language  that 
was  as  Greek  to  him — and  he  felt  out  of 
it,  jealous  and  indignant. 


"THE   GLORY   THAT   WAS    GREECE. 


"  G90CL  afternoon  to  you,  Mi*.  Taffy," 
said  Trilby,  in  English.  "I've  brought 
you  these  objects  of  art  and  virtu  to  make 
the  peace  with  you.  They're  the  real 
thing,  you  know.  I  borrowed  'em  from 
le  Pere  Martin,  chiffonnier  en  gros  et  en 
detail,  grand  officier  de  la  Legion  d'Hon- 
neur,  membre  de  l'Institut,  et  cetera, 
treize  bis,  Rue  du  Puits  d' Am  our,  rez-de- 
chaussee,  au  fond  de  la  cour  a  gauche, 
vis-a-vis  le  mont-de-piete!  He's  one  of 
my  intimate  friends,  and — " 

"  You  don't  mean  to  say  you're  the  in- 
timate friend  of  a  rag-picker  f  exclaimed 
the  good  Taffy. 

"Oh  yes!  Pourquoi  pas?  I  never 
brag;  besides,  there  ain't  any  beastly 
pride  about  le  Pere  Martin,"  said  Trilby, 
with  a  wink.  "  You'd  soon  find  that  out 
if  you  were  an  intimate  friend  of  his. 
This  is  how  it's  put  on.  Do  you  see?  If 
you^W  put  it  on  I'll  fasten  it  for  you,  and 
show  you  how  to  hold  the  lantern  and 
handle  the  pick.  You  may  come  to  it 
yourself  some  day,  you  know.  II  ne  faut 
jurer  de  rien !  Pere  Martin  will  pose  for 
you  in  person,  if  you  like.  He's  gener- 
ally disengaged  in  the  afternoon.  He's 
poor  but  honest,  you  know,  and  very 
nice  and  clean ;  quite  the  gentleman.    He 


likes  artists,  especially  English  —  they 
pay.  His  wife  sells  bric-a-brac  and  old 
masters:  Rembrandts  from  two  francs 
fifty  upwards.  They've  got  a  little  grand- 
son— a  love  of  a  child.  I'm  his  godmo- 
ther.    You  know  French,  I  suppose?" 

"Oh  yes,"  said  Taffy,  much  abashed. 
"  I'm  very  much  obliged  to  you — very 
much  indeed — a — I — a — " 

"  Y  a  pas  d'  quoi!"  said  Trilby,  divest- 
ing herself  of  her  basket  and  putting  it, 
with  the  pick  and  lantern,  in  a  corner. 
"Et  maintenant,  le  temps  d'absorber  une 
fine  de  fin  sec  (a  cigarette)  et  je  m'  la 
brise  (I'm  off).  On  m'attend  a  l'Ambas- 
sade  d'Autriche.  Et  puis  zut !  Allez-tou- 
jours,  mes  enfants.     En  avant  la  boxe !" 

She  sat  herself  down  cross-legged  on 
the  model -throne,  and  made  herself  a 
cigarette,  and  watched  the  fencing  and 
boxing.  Little  Billee  brought  her  a 
chair,  which  she  refused;  so  he  sat  down 
on  it  himself  by  her  side,  and  talked  to 
her,  just  as  he  would  have  talked  to  any 
young  lady  at  home — about  the  wTeather, 
about  Verdi's  new  opera  (which  she  had 
never  heard),  the  impressiveness  of  Notre 
Dame,  and  Victor  Hugo's  beautiful  ro- 
mance (which  she  had  never  read),  the 
mysterious  charm  of  Leonardo  da  Vinci's 


186 


HARPER'S    NEW    MONTHLY   MAGAZINE. 


Lisa  Gioconda's  smile  (which  she  had 
never  seen) — by  all  of  which  she  was  no 
doubt  rather  tickled  and  a  little  embar- 
rassed, perhaps  also  a  little  touched. 

Taffy  brought  her  a  cup  of  coffee,  and 
conversed  with  her  in  polite  formal 
French,  very  well  and  carefully  pro- 
nounced ;  and  the  Laird  tried  to  do  like- 
wise. His  French  was  of  that  honest 
English  kind  that  breaks  up  the  stiffness 
of  even  an  English  party ;  and  his  jolly 
manners  were  such  as  to  put  an  end  to 
all  shyness  and  constraint,  and  make  self- 
consciousness  impossible. 

Others  dropped  in  from  neighboring 
studios — the  usual  cosmopolite  crew.  It 
was  a  perpetual  come  and  go  in  this  par- 
ticular studio  between  four  and  six  of  the 
afternoon. 

There  were  ladies  too,  en  cheveux,  in 
caps  and  bonnets,  some  of  whom  knew 
Trilby,  and  thee'd  and  thou'd  with  familiar 
and  friendly  affection,  while  others  made- 
moiselle'd  her  with  distant  politeness,  and 
were  mademoiselle'd  and  madame'd  back 
again.  "Absolument  comme  a  l'am- 
bassade  d'Autriche,"  as  Trilby  observed  to 
the  Laird,  with  a  British  wink  that  was 
by  no  means  ambassadorial. 

Then  Svengali  came  and  made  some  of 
his  grandest  music,  which  was  as  com- 
pletely thrown  away  on  Trilby  as  fire- 
works on  a  blind  beggar,  for  all  she  held 
her  tongue  so  piously. 

Fencing  and  boxing  and  trapezing 
seemed  to  be  more  in  her  line;  and  in- 
deed, to  a  tone-deaf  person,  Taffy  lunging 
his  full  spread  with  a  foil,  in  all  the 
splendor  of  his  long  lithe  youthful 
strength,  was  a  far  gainlier  sight  than 
Svengali  at  the  key -board  flashing  his 
languid  bold  eyes  with  a  sickly  smile 
from  one  listener  to  another,  as  if  to 
say: 

"  N'est-ce  pas  que  che  suis  peau !  N'est- 
ce  pas  que  ch'ai  tu  chenie?  N'est-ce  pas 
que  che  suis  suplime,  enfin?" 

Then  enter  Durien  the  sculptor,  who 
had  been  presented  with  a  baignoire  at 
the  Odeon  to  see  La  Dame  aux  Camillas, 
and  he  invited  Trilby  and  another  lady 
t<>  dine  with  him  " au  cabaret"  and  share 
his  box. 

So  Trilby  didn't  go  to  the  Austrian  em- 
bassy after  all,  as  the  Laird  observed  to 
Little  Billee,  with  such  a  good  imitation 
of  her  wink  that  Little  Billee  was  bound 
to  laugh. 

But  Little  Billee  was  not  inclined  for 


fun ;  a  dulness,  a  sense  of  disenchantment, 
had  come  over  him ;  as  he  expressed  it  to 
himself,  with  pathetic  self-pity: 

"A  feeling  of  sadness  and  longing 
That  is  not  akin  to  pain, 
And  resembles  sorrow  only 

As  the  mist  resembles  the  rain." 

And  the  sadness,  if  he  had  known,  was 
that  all  beautiful  young  women  with  kind 
sweet  faces  and  noble  figures  and  goddess- 
like extremities  should  not  be  good  and 
pure  as  they  were  beautiful ;  and  the  long- 
ing was  a  longing  that  Trilby  could  be 
turned  into  a  young  lady — say  the  vicar's 
daughter  in  a  little  Devonshire  village — 
his  sister's  friend  and  co-teacher  at  the 
Sunday-school ;  a  simple,  pure,  and  pious 
maiden  of  gentle  birth. 

For  he  adored  piety  in  woman,  al- 
though he  was  not  pious  by  any  means. 
His  inarticulate  intuitive  perceptions  were 
not  of  form  and  color  secrets  only,  but 
strove  to  pierce  the  veil  of  deeper  mys- 
teries in  impetuous  and  dogmatic  boyish 
scorn  of  all  received  interpretations.  For 
he  nattered  himself  that  he  possessed  the 
philosophical  and  scientific  mind,  and 
piqued  himself  on  thinking  clearly,  and 
was  intolerant  of  human  inconsistency. 

That  small  reserve  portion  of  his  ever- 
active  brain  which  should  have  lain  fal- 
low while  the  rest  of  it  was  at  work 
or  play,  perpetually  plagued  itself  about 
the  mysteries  of  life  and  death,  and  was 
forever  propounding  unanswerable  ar- 
guments against  the  Christian  belief, 
through  a  kind  of  inverted  sympathy 
with  the  believer.  Fortunately  for  his 
friends,  Little  Billee  was  both  shy  and 
discreet,  and  very  tender  of  other  people's 
feelings;  so  he  kept  all  this  immature 
juvenile  agnosticism  to  himself. 

To  atone  for  such  ungainly  strong- 
mindedness  in  one  so  young  and  tender, 
he  was  the  slave  of  many  little  traditional 
observances  which  have  no  very  solid 
foundation  in  either  science  or  philoso- 
phy. For  instance,  he  wouldn't  walk 
under  a  ladder  for  worlds,  nor  sit  down 
thirteen  to  dinner,  nor  have  his  hair  cut 
on  a  Friday,  and  was  quite  upset  if  he 
happened  to  see  the  new  moon  through 
glass.  And  he  believed  in  lucky  and 
unlucky  numbers,  and  dearly  loved  the 
sights  and  scents  and  sounds  of  high 
mass  in  some  dim  old  French  cathe- 
dral, and  found  them  secretly  comfort- 
ing. 


TRILBY. 


187 


Let  us  hope  that  he  sometimes  laughed 
at  himself,  if  only  in  his  sleeve! 

And  with  all  his  keenness  of  insight 
into  life  he  had  a  well-brought-up,  mid- 
dle-class young  Englishman's  belief  in 
the  infallible  efficacy  of  gentle  birth — for 
gentle  he  considered  his  own  and  Taffy's 
and  the  Laird's,  and  that  of  most  of  the 
good  people  he  had  lived  among  in  Eng- 
land—all people,  in  short,  whose  two  par- 
ents and  four  grandparents  had  received 
a  liberal  education  and  belonged  to  the 
professional  class.  And  with  this  belief 
he  combined  (or  thought  he  did)  a  proper 
democratic  scorn  for  bloated  dukes  and 
lords,  and  even  poor  inoffensive  baronets, 
and  all  the  landed  gentry — everybody 
who  was  born  an  inch  higher  up  than 
himself. 

It  is  a  fairly  good  middle-class  social 
creed,  if  you  can  only  stick  to  it  through 
life  in  despite  of  life's  experience.  It  fos- 
ters independence  and  self-respect,  and 
not  a  few  stodgy  practical  virtues  as  well. 
At  all  events,  it  keeps  you  out  of  bad 
company,  which  is  to  be  found  above  and 
below. 

And  all  this  melancholy  preoccupation, 
on  Little  Billee's  part,  from  the  moment- 
ary gleam  and  dazzle  of  a  pair  of  over- 
perfect  feet  in  an  over-aesthetic  eye,  too 
much  enamored  of  mere  form  ! 

Reversing  the  usual  process,  he  had 
idealized  from  the  base  upwards! 

Many  of  us,  older  and  wiser  than  Little 
Billee,  have  seen  in  lovely  female  shapes 
the  outer  garment  of  a  lovely  female  soul. 
The  instinct  which  guides  us  to  do  this  is, 
perhaps,  a  right  one,  more  often  than  not. 
But  more  often  than  not,  also,  lovely  fe- 
male shapes  are  terrible  complicators  of 
the  difficulties  and  dangers  of  this  earthly 
life,  especially  for  their  owner,  and  more 
especially  if  she  be  a  humble  daughter  of 
the  people,  poor  and  ignorant,  of  a  yield- 
ing nature,  too  quick  to  love  and  trust. 
This  is  all  so  true  as  to  be  trite — so  trite 
as  to  be  a  common  platitude! 

A  modern  teller  of  tales,  most  widely 
(and  most  justly)  popular,  tells  us  of  he- 
roes and  heroines  who,  like  Lord  Byron's 
corsair,  were  linked  with  one  virtue  and 
a  thousand  crimes.  And  so  dexterously 
does  he  weave  his  story  that  the  young 
person  may  read  it  and  learn  nothing  but 
good. 

My  poor  heroine  was  the  converse  of 
these  engaging  criminals;  she  had  all  the 
virtues  but  one ;  but  the  virtue  she  lacked 


(the  very  one  of  all  that  plays  the  title- 
role,  and  gives  its  generic  name  to  all  the 
rest  of  that  goodly  company)  was  of  such 
a  kind  that  I  have  found  it  impossible  so 
to  tell  her  history  as  to  make  it  quite  fit 
and  proper  reading  for  the  ubiquitous 
young  person  so  dear  to  us  all. 

Most  deeply  to  my  regret.  For  I  had 
fondly  hoped  it  might  one  day  be  said  of 
me  that  whatever  my  other  literary  short- 
comings might  be,  I  at  least  had  never 
penned  aline  which  a  pure-minded  young 
British  mother  might  not  read  aloud  to 
her  little  blue-eyed  babe  as  it  lies  sucking 
its  little  bottle  in  its  little  bassinet. 

Fate  has  willed  it  otherwise. 

Would  indeed  that  I  could  duly  ex- 
press poor  Trilby's  one  shortcoming  in 
some  not  too  familiar  medium — in  Latin 
or  Greek,  let  us  say — lest  the  young  per- 
son (in  this  ubiquitousness  of  hers,  for 
which  Heaven  be  praised),  should  happen 
to  pry  into  these  pages  when  her  mother 
is  looking  another  way. 

Latin  and  Greek  are  languages  the 
young  person  should  not  be  taught  to 
understand — seeing  that  they  are  highly 
improper  languages,  deservedly  dead — in 
which  pagan  bards  who  should  have 
known  better  have  sung  the  filthy  loves 
of  their  gods  and  goddesses. 

But  at  least  am  I  scholar  enough  to 
enter  one  little  Latin  plea  on  Trilby's  be- 
half— the  shortest,  best,  and  most  beauti- 
ful plea  I  can  think  of.  It  was  once  used 
in  extenuation  and  condonation  of  the 
frailties  of  another  poor  weak  woman, 
presumably  beautiful,  and  a  far  worse  of- 
fender than  Trilby,  but  who,  like  Trilby, 
repented  of  her  ways,  and  was  most  justly 
forgiven — 

"  Quia  multum  amavit  I" 

Whether  it  be  an  aggravation  of  her. 
misdeeds  or  an  extenuating  circumstance, 
no  pressure  of  want,  no  temptations  of 
greed  or  vanity,  had  ever  been  factors  in 
urging  Trilby  on  her  downward  career 
after  her  first  false  step  in  that  direction — 
the  result  of  ignorance,  bad  advice  (from 
her  mother,  of  all  people  in  the  world), 
and  base  betrayal.  She  might  have  lived 
in  guilty  splendor  had  she  chosen,  but 
her  wants  were  few.  She  had  no  vanity, 
and  her  tastes  were  of  the  simplest,  and 
she  earned  enough  to  gratify  them  all, 
and  to  spare. 

So  she  followed  love  for  love's  sake 
only,  now  and  then,  as  she  would  have 


188 


HARPER'S    NEW    MONTHLY   MAGAZINE. 


TRILBY  S   FOREBEARS. 


followed  art  if  she  had  been  a  man — ca- 
priciously, desultorily,  more  in  a  frolic- 
some spirit  of  camaraderie  than  anything 
else.  Like  an  amateur,  in  short — a  dis- 
tinguished amateur  who  is  too  proud  to 
sell  his  pictures,  but  willingly  gives  one 
away  now  and  then  to  some  highly  valued 
and  much  admiring  friend. 

Sheer  gayety  of  heart  and  genial  good- 
fellowship,  the  difficulty  of  saying  nay  to 
earnest  pleading.  She  was  "  bonne  cama- 
rade  et  bonne  fille"  before  everything. 
Though  her  heart  was  not  large  enough 
to  harbor  more  than  one  light  love  at  a 
time  (even  in  that  Latin  quarter  of  geni- 
ally capacious  hearts),  it  had  room  for 
many  warm  friendships;  and  she  was  the 
warmest,  most  helpful,  and  most  compas- 
sionate of  friends,  far  more  serious  and 
faithful  in  friendship  than  in  love. 

Indeed,  she  might  almost  be  said  to  pos- 
sess a  virginal  heart,  so  little  did  she  know 
of  love's  heartaches  and  raptures  and 
torments  and  clingings  and  jealousies. 

With  her  it  was  lightly  come  and  light- 
ly go,  and  never  come  back  again;   as 


one  or  two,  or  per- 
haps three,  pictur- 
esque bohemians  of 
the  brush  or  chisel 
had  found,  at  some 
cost  to  their  vani- 
ty and  self-esteem ; 
perhaps  even  to 
a  deeper  feeling — 
who  knows? 

Trilby's    father, 
as    she    had    said, 
had    been    a    gen- 
tleman,   the      son 
of  a  famous  Dub- 
lin physician   and 
friend  of  George  the  Fourth's.     He  had 
been   a   fellow  of   his    college,  and   had 
entered   holy  orders.      He  also   had   all 
the  virtues  but  one;  he  was  a  drunkard, 
and  began  to  drink  quite  early  in  life. 
He  soon  left  the  Church,  and  became  a 
classical  tutor,  and  failed  through  this  be- 
setting sin  of  his,  and  fell  into  disgrace. 

Then  he  went  to  Paris,  and  picked  up 
a  few  English  pupils  there,  and  lost  them, 
and  earned  a  precarious  livelihood  from 
hand  to  mouth,  anyhow;  and  sank  from 
bad  to  worse. 

And  when  his  worst  was  about  reached, 
he  married  the  famous  tartaned  and  tam- 
qshantered  barmaid  at  the  "  Montagnards 
Ecossais,"  in  the  Rue  du  Paradis  Poisson- 
niere  (a  very  fishy  paradise  indeed) ;  she 
was  a  most  beautiful  Highland  lassie  of 
low  degree,  and  she  managed  to  support 
him,  or  helped  him  to  support  himself, 
for  ten  or  fifteen  years.  Trilby  was  born 
to  them,  and  was  dragged  up  in  some 
way — d  la  grdce  de  Dieu ! 

Patrick  O'Ferrall  soon  taught  his  wife 
to  drown  all  care  and  responsibility  in 
his  own  simple  way,  and  opportunities 
for  doing  so  were  never  lacking  to  her. 

Then  he  died,  and  left  a  posthumous 
child — born  ten  months  after  his  death, 
alas!  and  whose  birth  cost  its  mother  her 
life. 

Then  Trilby  became  a  blanchisseuse  de 
fin,  and  in  two  or  three  years  came  to 
grief  through  her  trust  in  a  friend  of  her 
mother's.  Then  she  became  a  model  be- 
sides, and  was  able  to  support  her  little 
brother,  whom  she  dearly  loved. 

At  the  time  this  story  begins,  this  small 
waif  and  stray  was  "en  pension"  with 
le  pere  Martin,  the  rag-picker,  and  his 
wife,  the  dealer  in  bric-a-brac  and  inex- 
pensive  old    masters.      They  were  very 


BUTTERFLIES. 


189 


good  people,  and  had  grown  fond  of  the 
child,  who  was  beautiful  to  look  at,  and 
full  of  pretty  tricks  and  pluck  and  clever- 
ness— a  popular  favorite  in  the  Rue  du 
Puits  d' Amour  and  its  humble  neighbor- 
hood. 

Trilby,  for  some  freak,  always  chose  to 
speak  of  him  as  her  godson,  and  as  the 
grandchild  of  le  pere  et  la  mere  Martin, 
so  that  these  good  people  had  almost 
grown  to  believe  he  really  belonged  to 
them. 

And  almost  every  one  else  believed 
that  he  was  the  child  of  Trilby  (in  spite 
of  her  youth),  and  she  was  so  fond  of 
him  that  she  didn't  mind  in  the  least. 

He  might  have  had  a  worse  home. 

La  mere  Martin  was  pious,  or  pretend- 
ed to  be ;  la  pere  Martin  was  the  reverse. 
But  they  were  equally  good  for  their  kind, 
and  though  coarse  and  ignorant  and  un- 
scrupulous in  many  ways  (as  was  natural 
enough),  they  were  gifted  in  a  very  full 
measure  with  the  saving  graces  of  love 
and  charity,  especially  he.  And  if  peo- 
ple are  to  be  judged  by  their  works,  this 
worthy  pair  are  no  doubt  both  equally 
well  compensated  by  now  for  the  trials 
and  struggles  of  their  sordid  earthly  life. 

So  much  for  Trilby's  parentage. 

And  as  she  sat  and  wept  at  Madame 
Doche's  impersonation  of  la  Dame  aux 


Camelias  (with  her  hand  in  Durien's)  she 
vaguely  remembered,  as  in  a  waking 
dream,  now  the  noble  presence  of  Taffy 
as  he  towered  cool  and  erect,  foil  in  hand, 
gallantly  waiting  for  his  adversary  to 
breathe,  now  the  beautiful  sensitive  face 
of  Little  Billee  and  his  deferential  cour- 
tesy. 

And  during  the  entr'actes  her  heart 
went  out  in  friendship  to  the  jolly  Scotch 
Laird  of  Cockpen,  who  came  out  now  and 
then  with  such  terrible  French  oaths  and 
abominable  expletives  (and  in  the  pres- 
ence of  ladies  too!),  without  the  slightest 
notion  of  what  they  meant. 

For  the  Laird  had  a  quick  ear,  and  a 
craving  to  be  colloquial  and  idiomatic 
before  everything  else,  and  made  many 
awkward  and  embarrassing  mistakes. 

It  would  be  with  him  as  though  a  polite 
Frenchman  should  say  to  a  fair  daughter 

of.  Albion,  "D my   eyes,  mees,  your 

tea  is  getting cold;  let  me  tell  that 

good  old of  a  Jules  to  bring  you  an- 
other cup." 

And  so  forth,  till  time  and  experience 
taught  him  better.  It  is  perhaps  well  for 
him  that  his  first  experiments  in  conver- 
sational French  were  made  in  the  uncon- 
ventional circle  of  the  Place  St.  Anatole 
des  Arts. 

[to  be  continued.] 


BUTTERFLIES. 

BY  CHARLES  G.   D.  ROBERTS. 

ONCE,  in  a  garden,  when   the  thrush's  song, 
Pealing  at  morn,  made  holy  all  the  air, 
Till  earth  was  healed  of  many  an  ancient  wrong, 
And  life  appeared  another  name  for  prayer, 


Rose  suddenly  a  swarm  of  butterflies 

On  wings  of  white  and  gold  and  azure  fire; 

And  one  said,  "These  are  flowers  that  seek  the  skies, 
Loosed  by  the   spell  of  their  supreme  desire." 


EGYPT  AND   CHALDEA 

IN  THE   LIGHT   OF  RECENT   DISCOVERIES. 

BY  W.  ST.  CHAD  BOSCAWEN. 


"  fTlHEY  took  me  and  in 
X  a  far  distant  place  at 
the  mouth  of  the  rivers 
they  caused  us  to  dwell." 
Thus  the  Chaldean  Noah, 
Shamus-Napisti,  describes 
to  the  hero  of  the  Babylo- 
nian epic  his  translation  — 
"to  dwell  like  one  of  the 
gods,"  in  the  abode  of  im- 
mortality. The  phrase  is 
a  most  important  one  when 
viewed  in  the  light  of  re- 
cent archaeological  discov- 
eries in  the  land  of  Chal- 
dea.  To  the  writers  of  the 
hymns  and  poems  of  the 
land  of  Nimrod,  the  southernmost  portion 
of  the  Tigro-Euph rates  Valley,  where  the 
two  great  life-giving  rivers  discharged 
themselves  into  the  waters  of  the  Persian 
Gulf,  was  the  land  of  forefathers — the  land 
where  gods  and  men  had  communed  to- 
gether— the  land  of  immortality.  Apart 
from  its  religious  symbolism,  the  south 
of  Babylonia — the  regions  now  but  dreary 
marsh  and  desert — was  undoubtedly  the 
field  of  the  first  beginnings  of  Chaldean 
civilizations.  The  Hebrew  records  tell  us 
that  out  of  that  land,  Shinar  or  Sumir, 
the  region  of  South  Chaldea,  Nimrod  went 
forth  to  found  the  kingdom  of  Assur, 
and  of  the  truth  of  this  statement  every 
clay  tablet  in  the  royal  library  at  Nine- 
veh was  a  proof.  The  study  of  the  As- 
syrian literature  brought  to  light  by  the 
labors  of  Layard,  Smith,  and  others,  estab- 
lished at  the  very  outset  the  fact  that  all 
the  essential  features  of  Assyrian  culture 
were  derived,  with  but  slight  alteration, 
from  the  older  learning  and  wisdom  of 
Chaldea.  Scholars  soon  recognized  the 
fact  that  the  clay  tomes  from  the  library 
of  Assurbanipal  were  but  late — and  one 
might  almost  say  pirated — editions  of  old- 
er works  in  the  libraries  of  the  mother- 
land of  Chaldea.  To  these,  then,  they  must 
turn  if  they  would  study,  as  all  true  stu- 
dents desire  to  do,  the  "ground  texts" 
of  the  literature  of  the  nation  or  creed. 
The  explorations  of  Hormuza  Rassam  at 
Aboo  Hubba,  the  ancient  Sippara  or  Seph- 
arvaim,  the  Pantabihlos  of  Kerossus — and 
in  the  ruins  of  the  great  temple  of  Nebo 
at  Borsippa — have  restored  to  us  a  vast 
of  literature  containing  older  and 


variant  editions  of  the  texts  in  the  Assy- 
rian "King's  Library."  Still,  our  quest 
for  the  first  editions  is  not  ended,  for  these 
documents  reveal  to  us  the  existence  of 
older  texts  in  the  primitive  cities,  older 
than  Great  Babylon  itself.  From  them 
we  learn  of  libraries  of  schools  of  scribes 
in  Eridu,  "the  holy  city,"  in  Larsa,  in 
Erech,  the  capital  of  Nimrod,  and  in  Ur, 
the  home  of  Abram — cities  of  the  South. 
It  was  on  the  shores  of  the  land  of  Sumir 
or  Shinar,  the  region  washed  by  the  waves 
of  the  Persian  Gulf,  that  Oannes  "the 
fishman  "  came  to  teach  the  beginnings 
of  "letters,  sciences,  and  arts"  of  every 
kind  to  the  fathers  of  Chaldea.  To  this 
region,  then,  scholars  looked  eagerly  for 
the  buried  treasures  which  should  help  us 
to  solve  the  problem  of  the  beginning  of 
"  this  first  of  empires." 

Layard  and  Loftus  had  penetrated  into 
this  land  of  promise,  and  had  by  the  re- 
sults of  their  labors  still  further  whetted 
the  appetites  of  scholars,  but  no  system- 
atic exploration  of  any  one  site  had  been 
carried  out.  The  site  of  the  primitive 
capital,  Erech,  the  Uruki,  or  "city  of  the 
land,"  had  been  identified  at  Warka. 
Mughier  had  been  shown  to  be  the  ruins 
of  Ur  of  the  Chaldees,  and  the  two  bricks 
brought  from  Aboo  Sharin  by  Mr.  Taylor 
in  1856  had  enabled  us  to  identify  these 
vast  ruins  as  the  site  of  Eridu  or  Eri- 
dugga,  the  oldest  and  holiest  of  the  cities 
of  Chaldea.  These  ruins,  the  site  of  the 
oldest  city  and  the  dwelling-place  of  the 
greatest  theological  college  in  a  land  of 
priests  and  scribes,  still  remain,  nearly  a 
century  after  the  decipherment  of  the  cu- 
neiform inscriptions,  unexplored.  Who 
can  tell  how  many  problems  of  world- 
wide importance  might  be  solved  by  its 
buried  treasures? 

Long  delayed  as  the  work  has  been,  it 
has  at  last  been  begun,  and  the  results  of 
the  first  systematic  exploration  of  the 
ancient  cities  of  Chaldea  have  far  sur- 
passed our  hopes.  The  honor  of  first 
bringing  to  light  the  buried  treasures  of 
one  of  the  oldest  cities  of  this  ancient 
hind,  and  of  proving  to  us  in  the  most 
unmistakable  manner  how  truly  Chaldea 
is  the  mother-land  of  the  arts  and  sciences, 
belongs  to  M.  Ernest  de  Sarzec,  French 
consul  to  Baghdad. 

For  many  years  fragments  of  sculp- 


HARPER'S 

NEW  MONTHLY  MAGAZINE. 


Vol.  LXXXVIII. 


FEBRUARY,  1894. 


No.  DXXV. 


TRILBY* 

BY  GEORGE   DU  MAURIER. 

$art  Seconfc. 


NOBODY  knew  exactly  how  Svengali 
lived,  and  very  few  knew  where  (or 
why).  He  occupied  a  roomy  dilapidated 
garret,  au  sixieme,  in  the  Rue  Tire-Liard ; 
with  a  truckle-bed  and  a  piano-forte  for 
furniture,  and  very  little  else. 

He  was  poor;  for  in  spite  of  his  talent 
he  had  not  yet  made  his  mark  in  Paris. 
His  manners  may  have  been  accountable 
for  this.  He  would  either  fawn  or  bully, 
.and  could  be  grossly  impertinent.  He 
had  a  kind  of  cynical  humor,  which  was 
more  offensive  than  amusing,  and  always 
laughed  at  the  wrong  thing,  at  the  wrong 
time,  in  the  wrong  place.  And  his  laugh- 
ter was  always  derisive  and  full  of  mal- 
ice. And  his  egotism  and  conceit  were 
not  to  be  borne;  and  then,  he  was  both 
tawdry  and  dirty  in  his  person;  more 
greasily,  mattedly  unkempt  than  a  really 
successful  pianist  has  any  right  to  be,  even 
in  the  best  society. 

He  was  not  a  nice  man,  and  there  was 
no  pathos  in  his  poverty — a  poverty  that 
was  not  honorable,  and  need  not  have 
existed  at  all;  for  he  was  constantly  re- 
ceiving supplies  from  his  own  people  in 
Austria — his  old  father  and  mother,  his 
sisters,  his  cousins,  and  his  aunts,  hard- 
working, frugal  folk  of  whom  he  was  the 
pride  and  the  darling. 

He  had  but  one  virtue — his  love  of  his 
art;  or,  rather,  his  love  of  himself  as  a 
master  of  his  art — the  master;  for  he 
despised,  or  affected  to  despise,  all  other 
musicians,  living  or  dead — even  those 
whose  work  he  interpreted  so  diviuely, 
and  pitied  them  for  not  hearing  Svengali 
give  utterance  to  their  music,  which  of 
course  they  could  not  utter  themselves. 

"lis  safen t  tous  un  peu  toucher  du 
biano,  mais  pas  grand'chose!" 

*  Begun  in  January  number,  1894. 
Vol.  LXXXVIII.— No.  525.— 31  Copyright, 


He  had  been  the  best  pianist  of  his  time 
at  the  Conservatory  in  Leipsic;  and,  in- 
deed, there  was  perhaps  some  excuse  for 
this  overweening  conceit,  since  he  was 
able  to  lend  a  quite  peculiar  individual 
charm  of  his  own  to  any  music  he  play- 
ed, except  the  highest  and  best  of  all,  in 
which  he  conspicuously  failed. 

He  had  to  draw  the  line  just  above 
Chopin,  where  he  reached  the  highest 
level.  It  will  not  do  to  lend  your  own 
quite  peculiar  individual  charm  to  Han- 
del and  Bach  and  Beethoven ;  and  Chopin 
is  not  bad  as  a  pis-aller. 

He  had  ardently  wished  to  sing,  and 
had  studied  hard  to  that  end  in  Germany, 
in  Italy,  in  France,  with  the  forlorn  hope 
of  evolving  from  some  inner  recess  a  voice 
to  sing  with.  But  nature  had  been  singu- 
larly harsh  to  him  in  this  one  respect — 
inexorable.  He  was  absolutely  without 
voice,  beyond  the  harsh,  hoarse,  weak  ra- 
ven's croak  he  used  to  speak  with,  and  no 
method  availed  to  make  one  for  him.  But 
he  grew  to  understand  the  human  voice 
as  perhaps  no  one  has  understood  it  be- 
fore or  since. 

So  in  his  head  he  went  forever  singing, 
singing,  singing,  as  probably  no  human 
nightingale  has  ever  yet  been  able  to  sing 
out  loud,  for  the  glory  and  delight  of  his 
fellow-mortals,  making  unheard  heaven- 
ly melody  of  the  cheapest,  trivialest  tunes 
— tunes  of  the  cafe  concert,  tunes  of  the 
nursery,  the  shop-parlor,  the  guard-room, 
the  school-room,  the  pot-house,  the  slum. 
There  was  nothing  so  humble,  so  base 
even,  but  what  his  magic  could  transform 
it  into  the  rarest  beauty  without  altering 
a  note.  This  seems  impossible,  I  know. 
But  if  it  didn't,  where  would  the  magic 
come  in? 

Whatever  of  heart  or  conscience — pity, 
1894,  by  Harper  and  Brothers.    All  rights  reserved. 


330 


HARPER'S    NEW    MONTHLY    MAGAZINE. 


love,  tenderness,  manliness,  courage,  rev- 
erence, charity — endowed  him  at  his  birth 
had  been  swallowed  up  by  this  one  facul- 
ty, and  nothing  of  them  was  left  for  the 


THE   LATIN    QUARTER. 


common  uses  of  life.  He  poured  them 
all  into  his  little  flexible  flageolet. 

Svengali  playing  Chopin  on  the  piano- 
forte, even  (or  especially)  Svengali  play- 
ing "Ben  Bolt "  on  that  penny  whistle  of 
his,  was  as  one  of  the  heavenly  host. 

Svengali  walking  up  and  down  the 
earth  seeking  whom  he  might  cheat,  be- 
tray, exploit,  borrow  money  from,  make 
brutal  fun  of,  bully  if  he  dared,  cringe  to 
if  he  must — man,  woman,  child,  or  dog — 
was  about  as  bad  as  they  make  'em. 

To  earn  a  few  pence  when  he  couldn't 
borrow  them  lie  played  accompaniments 
at  cafe  concerts,  and  even  then  he  gave 
offence;  for  in  his  contempt  for  the  singer 
he  would  play  too  loud,  and  embroider  his 
accompaniments  with  brilliant  improvisa- 
tions of  his  own,  and  lift  his  hands  on  high 
and  bring  them  down  with  a  bang  in  the 
sentimental  parts,  and  shake  his  dirty 
mane  and  shrug  his  shoulders,  and  smile 
and  leer  at  the  audience,  and  do  all  he 
could  to  attract  their  attention  to  himself. 
He  also  gave  a  few  music  lessons  (not 


at  ladies'  schools,  let  us  hope),  for  which 
he  was  not  well  paid,  presumably,  since 
he  was  always  without  the  sou,  always 
borrowing  money,  that  he  never  paid  back, 
and  exhausting 
the  pockets  and 
the  patience  of 
one  acquaintance 
after  another. 

He  had  but  two 
friends.         There 
was    Gecko,  who 
lived   in    a    little 
garret    close    by, 
in     the     Impasse 
des     Ramon  eurs, 
and  who  was  sec- 
ond violin  in  the 
orchestra    of   the 
Gymnase,        and 
shared   his   hum- 
ble earnings  with  his  master,  to  whom, 
indeed,  he  owed  his  great  talent,  not  yet 
revealed  to  the  world. 

Svengali's  other  friend  and  pupil  was 
(or  rather  had  been)  the  mysterious  Hono- 
rine,  of  whose  conquest  he  was  much  given 
to  boast,  hinting  that  she  was  "une  jeune 
femme  du  monde."  This  was  not  the 
case.  Mademoiselle  Honorine  Cahen  (bet- 
ter known  in  the  quartier  latin  as  Mimi 
la  Salope)  was  a  dirty,  drabby  little  dolly- 
mop  of  a  Jewess,  a  model  for  the  figure — 
a  very  humble  person  indeed,  socially. 

She  was,  however,  of  a  very  lively  dis- 
position, and  had  a  charming  voice,  and  a 
natural  gift  of  singing  so  sweetly  that  you 
forgot  her  accent,  which  was  that  of  the 
"tout  ce  qu'il  y  a  de  plus  canaille." 


AS   BAD   AS   THEY    MAKE    EM. 

She  used  to  sit  at  Carrel's,  and  during 
the  pose  she  would  sing.  When  Little 
Billee  first  heard  her  he  was  so  fascinated 
that  "  it  made  him  sick  to  think  she  sat  for 


TRILBY. 


331 


the  figure  " — an  effect,  by- 
the-way,  that  was  always 
produced  upon  him  by  all 
specially  attractive  figure 
models  of  the  gentler  sex, 
for  he  had  a  reverence  for 
woman.  And  before  ev- 
erything else,  he  had  for 
the  singing  woman  an 
absolute  worship.  He  was 
especially  thrall  to  the 
contralto— the  deep  low 
voice  that  breaks  and 
changes  in  the  middle 
and  soars  all  at  once  into 
a  magnified  angelic  boy 
treble.  It  pierced  through 
his  ears  to  his  heart  and 
stirred  his  very  vitals.. 

He  had  once  heard  Ma- 
dame Alboni,  and  it  had 
been  an  epoch  in  his  life; 
he  would  have  been  an 
easy  prey  to  the  sirens! 
Even  beauty  paled  before 
the  lovely  female  voice 
singing  in  the  middle  of 
the  note — the  nightingale 
killed  the  bird  -  of  -  para- 
dise. 

I  need  hardly  say  that 
poor  Mimi  la  Salope  had 
not  the  voice  of  Madame 
Alboni,  nor  the  art;  but 
it  was  a  beautiful  voice 
of  its  little  kind,  always 
in  the  very  middle  of  the 
note,  and  her  artless  art  had  its  quick  se- 
duction. 

She  sang  little  songs  of  Beranger's — 
"  Grand'mere,  parlez-nous  de  lui!"  or 
"  T'en  souviens-tu?  disait  un  capitaine — " 
or  "Enfants,  c'est  moi  qui  suis  Lisette!" 
and  such  like  pretty  things,  that  almost 
brought  the  tears  to  Little  Billee's  easily 
moistened  eyes. 

But  soon  she  would  sing  little  songs 
that  were  not  by  Beranger — little  songs 
with  slang  words  Little  Billee  hadn't 
French  enough  to  understand;  but  from 
the  kind  of  laughter  with  which  the 
points  were  received  by  the  "rapins"  in 
Carrel's  studio  he  guessed  these  little 
songs  were  vile,  though  the  touching  lit- 
tle voice  was  as  that  of  the  seraphim  still, 
and  he  knew  the  pang  of  disenchantment 
and  vicarious  shame. 

Svengali  had  heard  her  sing  at  the 
Brasserie  des  Porcherons  in  the  Rue  du 


A   VOICE    HE    DIDN  T   UNDERSTAND. 


Crapaud-volant,  and  had  volunteered  to 
teach  her;  and  she  went  to  see  him  in  his 
garret,  and  he  played  to  her,  and  leered 
and  ogled,  and  flashed  his  bold  black 
beady  eyes  into  hers,  and  she  straightway 
mentally  prostrated  herself  in  reverence 
and  adoration  before  this  dazzling  speci- 
men of  her  race. 

So  that  her  sordid,  mercenary  little 
gutter-draggled  soul  was  filled  with  the 
sight  and  the  sound  of  him,  as  of  a  lordly, 
godlike,  shawm-playing,  cymbal-banging 
hero  and  prophet  of  the  Lord  God  of  Is- 
rael— David  and  Saul  in  one! 

And  then  he  set  himself  to  teach  her — 
kindly  and  patiently  at  first,  calling  her 
sweet  little  pet  names — his  "Rose  of  Sha- 
ron," his  "pearl  of  Pabylon,"  his  "ca- 
zelle-eyed  liddle  Cherusalem  skylark" — 
and  promised  her  that  she  should  be  the 
queen  of  the  nightingales. 

But  before  he  could  teach  her  anything 


HARPER'S  NEW  MONTHLY  MAGAZINE. 


'and  so,  no  more." 


he  had  to  unteach  her  all  she  knew;  her 
breathing,  the  production  of  her  voice, 
its  emission — everything  was  wrong".  She 
worked  indefatigably  to  please  him,  and 
soon  succeeded  in  forgetting  all  the  pret- 
ty little  sympathetic  tricks  of  voice  and 
phrasing  Mother  Nature  had  taught  her. 

But  though  she  had  an  exquisite  ear, 
she  had  no  real  musical  intelligence — no 
intelligence  of  any  kind  except  about  sous 
and  centimes;  she  was  as  stupid  as  a  lit- 
tle downy  owl,  and  her  voice  was  just  a 
light  native  warble,  a  throstle's  pipe,  all 
in  the  head  and  nose  and  throat  (a  voice 
he  didn't  understand,  for  once),  a  thing 
of  mere  youth  and  health  and  bloom  and 
high  spirits— like  her  beauty,  such  as  it 
was — beaute  du  diable,  beaute  damnee. 

She  did  her  very  best,  and  practised  all 
she  could  in  this  new  way,  and  sang  her- 
self hoarse:  she  scarcely  ate  or  slept  for 
practising.  He  grew  harsh  and  impatient 
and  coldly  severe,  and  of  course  she  loved 
him  all  the  more;  and  the  more  she  loved 
him  the  more  nervous  she  got  and  the 
worse  she  sang.  Her  voice  cracked;  her 
ear  became  demoralized;  her  attempts  to 
vocalize  grew  almost  as  comical  as  Tril- 
by's. So  that  he  lost  his  temper  com- 
pletely, and  called  her  terrible  names, 
and  pinched  and  punched  her  with  his 
big  bony  hands  till  she  wept  worse  than 


Niobe,  and  borrowed  money  of  her — five- 
franc  pieces,  even  francs  and  demifrancs — 
which  he  never  paid  her  back;  and  brow- 
beat and  bullied  and  bally  ragged  her  till 
she  went  quite  mad  for  love  of  him,  and 
would  have  jumped  out  of  his  sixth-floor 
window  to  give  him  a  moment's  pleasure ! 

He  did  not  ask  her  to  do  this — it  never 
occurred  to  him,  and  would  have  given 
him  no  pleasure  to  speak  of.  But  one 
fine  Sabbath  morning  (a  Saturday,  of 
course)  he  took  her  by  the  shoulders  and 
chucked  her,  neck  and  crop,  out  of  his 
garret,  with  the  threat  that  if  she  ever 
dared  to  show  her  face  there  again  he 
would  denounce  her  to  the  police — an  aw- 
ful threat  to  the  likes  of  poor  Mimi  la 
Salope ! 

"For  where  did  all  those  five -franc 
pieces  come  from — hein  % — with  which  she 
had  tried  to  pay  for  all  the  singing  les- 
sons that  had  been  thrown  away  upon 
her?  Not  from  merely  sitting  to  paint- 
ers— hein  ?" 

Thus  the  little  gazelle-eyed  Jerusalem 
skylark  went  back  to  her  native  streets 
again  —  a  mere  mud -lark  of  the  Paris 
slums — her  wings  clipped,  her  spirit 
quenched  and  broken,  and  with  no  more 
singing  left  in  her  than  a  common  or 
garden  sparrow — not  so  much  ! 

And  so,  no  more  of  "la  betite  Hono- 
rine!" 

The  morning  after  this  adventure 
Svengali  woke  up  in  his  garret  with  a 
tremendous  longing  to  spend  a  happy 
day;  for  it  was  a  Sunday,  and  a  very  fine 
one. 

He  made  a  long  arm  and  reached  his 
waistcoat  and  trousers  off  the  floor,  and 
emptied  the  contents  of  their  pockets  on 
to  his  tattered  blanket:  no  silver,  no  gold, 
only  a  few  sous  and  two-sou  pieces,  just 
enough  to  pay  for  a  meagre  premier 
dejeuner  ! 

He  had  cleared  out  Gecko  the  day  be- 
fore, and  spent  the  proceeds  (ten  francs 
at  least)  in  one  night's  riotous  living — 
pleasures  in  which  Gecko  had  had  no 
share;  and  he  could  think  of  no  one  to 
borrow  money  from  but  Little  Billee, 
Taffy,  and  the  Laird,  whom  he  had  neg- 
lected and  left  untapped  for  days. 

So  he  slipped  into  his  clothes, and  looked 
at  himself  in  what  remained  of  a  little 
zinc  mirror,  and  found  that  his  forehead 
left  little  to  be  desired,  but  that  his 
eyes  and  temples  were  decidedly  grimy. 


TRILBY. 


333 


Wherefore,  he  poured  a  little  water  out 
of  a  little  jug  into  a  little  basin,  and 
twisting"  the  corner  of  his  pocket-handker- 
chief round  his  dirty  forefinger,  he  deli- 
cately dipped  it,  and  removed  the  offend- 
ing stains.  His  fingers,  he  thought,  would 
do  very  well  for  another  day  or  two  as 
they  were;  he  ran  them  through  his  mat- 
ted black  mane,  pushed  it  behind  his  ears, 
and  gave  it  the  twist  he  liked  (and  that 
was  so  much  disliked  by  his  English 
friends).  Then  he  put  on  his  beret  and 
his  velveteen  cloak,  and  went  forth  into 
the  sunny  streets,  with  a  sense  of  the 
freedom  and  pleasantness  of  Sunday 
morning  in  Paris  in  the  month  of  May. 

He  found  Little  Billee  sitting  in  a  zinc 
hip-bath,  busy  with   soap    and   sponge  ; 
and  was  so  tickled  and  interested  by  the 
sight  that  he  quite 
forgot   for   the   mo- 
ment what   he   had 
come  for. 

"Himmel!  Why 
the  devil  are  you  do- 
ing that?1'  he  asked, 
in  his  German -He- 
brew-French. 

''Doing  whatf" 
asked  Little  Billee, 
in  his  French  of 
Stratford-atte-Bowe. 

"  Sitting  in  water 
and  playing  with  a 
cake  of  soap  and  a 
sponge  I" 

"  Why,  to  try  and 
get  myself  clean,  I 
suppose!" 

"Ach!  And  how 
the  devil  did  you 
get  yourself  dirty, 
then?" 

To  this  Little  Bil- 
lee found  no  imme- 
diate answer,  and 
went  on  with  his 
ablution  after  the 
hissing,  splashing, 
energetic  fashion  of 
Englishmen  ;  and 
Svengali  laughed 
loud  and  long  at  the 
spectacle  of  a  little 
Englishman  trying 
to  get  h  i  mself  clean 
— "  tachant  de  se 
nettoyer !" 

When  such  clean- 


liness had  been  attained  as  was  possible 
under  the  circumstances,  Svengali  begged 
for  the  loan  of  two  hundred  francs,  and 
Little  Billee  gave  him  a  five-franc  piece. 

Content  with  this,  faute  de  mieux,  the 
German  asked  him  when  he  would  be 
trying  to  get  himself  clean  again,  as  he 
would  much  like  to  come  and  see  him  do 
it. 

"Demang  mattang,  a  votre  sairveece!" 
said  Little  Billee,  with  a  courteous  bow. 

"  What!!  Monday  too!!  Gott  in  Him- 
mel! you  try  to  get  yourself  clean  every 
day  ?" 

And  he  laughed  himself  out  of  the 
room,  out  of  the  house,  out  of  the  Place 
de  l'Odeon — all  the  way  to  the  Rue  de 
Seine,  where  dwelt  the  "man  of  blood," 
whom    he  meant  to  propitiate  with  the 


TWO   ENGLANDERS   IN    ONE   DAY. 


story  of  that  ori- 
ginal, Little  Bil- 
lee, trying  to  get 
himself  clean — 
that  he  might  bor- 
row another  five- 
franc  piece,  or  per- 
haps two. 

As  the  reader 
will  no  doubt  an- 
ticipate, he  found 
Taffy  in  his  bath 
too,  and  fell  to 
laughing  with 
such  convulsive 
laughter,        such 


334 


HARPER'S   NEW   MONTHLY   MAGAZINE. 


twistings,  screwings,  and  doublings  of 
himself  up,  such  pointings  of  his  dirty 
forefinger  at  the  huge  naked  Briton,  that 
Taffy  was  offended,  and  all  but  lost  his 
temper. 

''What  the  devil  are  you  cackling  at, 
sacred  head  of  pig  that  you  are?  Do  you 
want  to  be  pitched  out  of  that  window  into 
the  Rue  de  Seine?  Just  you  wait  a  bit; 
Til  wash  your  head  for  you !" 

And  Taffy  jumped  out  of  his  bath,  such 
a  towering  figure  of  righteous  Herculean 
wrath  that  Svengali  was  appalled,  and 
fled. 

"  Donnerwetter!"  he  exclaimed  as  he 
tumbled  down  the  narrow  staircase  of  the 
Hotel  de  Seine,  "what  for  a  thick  head! 
what  for  a  pigdog!  what  for  a  rotten, 
brutal,  verfluchter  kerl  of  an  Englander !" 

Then  he  paused  for  thought. 

"Now  will  I  go  to  that  Scottish  Eng- 
lander, in  the  Place  St.-Anatole  des  Arts, 
for  that  other  five-franc  piece.  But  first 
will  I  wait  a  little  while  till  he  has  per- 
haps finished  trying  to  get  himself  clean." 

So  he  breakfasted  at  the  cremerie 
Souchet,  in  the  Rue  Clopin-Clopant,  and, 
feeling  quite  safe  again,  he  laughed  and 
laughed  till  his  very  sides  were  sore. 

Two  Englanders  in  one  day,  a  big  one 
and  a  little  one,  trying  to  get  themselves 
clean! 

He  rather  flattered  himself  he'd  scored 
off  those  two  Englanders. 

After  all,  he  was  right  perhaps,  from  his 
point  of  view;  you  can  get  as  dirty  in  a 
week  as  in  a  lifetime,  so  what's  the  good 
of  taking  such  a  lot  of  trouble?  Besides,  so 
long  as  you  are  clean  enough  to  suit  your 
kind,  to  be  any  cleaner  would  be  priggish 
and  pedantic,  and  get  you  disliked. 

Just  as  Svengali  was  about  to  knock  at 
the  Laird's  door,  Trilby  came  down  stairs 
from  Durien's,  very  unlike  herself.  Her 
eyes  were  red  with  weeping,  and  there 
w.ere  great  black  rings  round  them;  she 
was  pale  under  her  freckles. 

"  Fous  afez  du  chacrin,  matemoiselle?" 
asked  he. 

She  told  him  that  she  had  neuralgia  in 
her  eyes,  a  thing  she  was  subject  to;  that 
the  pain  was  maddening,  and  generally 
lasted  twenty- four  hours. 

"  Perhaps  I  can  cure  you ;  come  in  here 
with  me." 

The  Laird's  ablutions  (if  he  had  in- 
dulged in  any  that  morning)were  evident- 
ly over  for  the  day.  He  was  breakfast  ing 
on   a  roll  and  butter,  and  coffee  of  his 


own  brewing.  He  was  deeply  distressed 
at  the  sight  of  poor  Trilby's  sufferings,  and 
offered  whiskey  and  coffee  and  ginger- 
nuts,  which  she  would  not  touch. 

Svengali  told  her  to  sit  down  on  the 
divan,  and  sat  opposite  to  her,  and  bade 
her  look  him  well  in  the  white  of  the 
eyes. 

"  Recartez-moi  pien  tans  le  plane  tes 
yeux." 

Then  he  made  little  passes  and  counter- 
passes  on  her  forehead  and  temples  and 
down  her  cheek  and  neck.  Soon  her 
eyes  closed  and  her  face  grew  placid. 
After  a  while,  a  quarter  of  an  hour  per- 
haps, he  asked  her  if  she  suffered  still. 

"Oh !  presque  plus  du  tout,  monsieur — 
e'est  le  ciel." 

In  a  few  minutes  more  he  asked  the 
Laird  if  he  knew  German. 

"Just  enough  to  understand,"  said  the 
Laird  (who  had  spent  a  year  in  Diisseldorf), 
and  Svengali  said  to  him  in  German: 
"See,  she  sleeps  not,  but  she  shall  not 
open  her  eyes.     Ask  her." 

"Are  you  asleep,  Miss  Trilby?"  asked 
the  Laird. 

"No." 

"Then  open  your  eyes  and  look  at  me." 

She  strained  to  open  her  eyes,  but  could 
not,  and  said  so. 

Then  Svengali  said,  again  in  German, 
"She  shall  not  open  her  mouth.  Ask  her." 

"Why  couldn't  you  open  your  eyes, 
Miss  Trilby?" 

She  strained  to  open  her  mouth  and 
speak,  but  in  vain.     . 

"She  shall  not  rise  from  the  divan. 
Ask  her." 

But  Trilby  was  spellbound,  and  could 
not  move. 

"  I  will  now  set  her  free, "said  Svengali. 

And,  lo !  she  got  up  and  waved  herarms, 
and  cried,  "Vive  la  Prusse!  me  v'la 
guerie!"  and  in  her  gratitude  she  kissed 
Svengali's  hand ;  and  he  leered,  and  show- 
ed his  big  brown  teeth  and  the  yellow 
whites  at  the  top  of  his  big  black  eyes, 
and  drew  his  breath  with  a  hiss. 

"  Now  I'll  go  to  Durien's  and  sit.  How 
can  I  thank  you,  monsieur?  You  have 
taken  all  my  pain  away." 

"Yes,  matemoiselle.  I  have  got  it  my- 
self; it  is  in  my  elbows.  But  I  love  it, 
because  it  comes  from  you.  Every  time 
you  have  pain  you  shall  come  to  me,  12 
Rue  Tire-Liard,  au  sixieme  au-dessus  de 
l'entresol,  and  I  will  cure  you  and  take 
your  pain  myself — " 


TRILBY. 


335 


"Oh,  you  are  too  good!" 
and  in  her  high  spirits  she 
turned  round  on  her  heel  and 
uttered  her  portentous  war- 
cry,  "Milk  below!"  The  very 
rafters  rang-  with  it,  and  the 
piano  gave  out  a  solemn  re- 
sponse. 

"What  is  that  you  say, 
matemoiselle?" 

"Oh!  it's  what  the  milk- 
men say  in  England." 

"It  is  a  wonderful  cry, 
matemoiselle — wunderschon ! 
It  comes  straight  through  the 
heart;  it  has  its  roots  in  the 
stomach,  and  blossoms  into 
music  on  the  lips  like  the 
voice  of  Madame  Alboni — 
voce  sulle  labbre!  It  is  good 
production — c'est  un  cri  du 
cceur!" 

Trilby  blushed  with  pride 
and  pleasure. 

"Yes,  matemoiselle!  I  only 
know  one  person  in  the  whole 
world  who  can  produce  the 
voice  so  well  as  you  !  I  give 
you  my  word  of  honor." 

"Who  is  it,  monsieur — 
yourself?" 

"Ach,  no,  matemoiselle;  I 
have    not    that   privilege.     I 
have  unfortunately  no  voice 
to  produce ....  It  is  a  waiter 
at  the  Cafe  de  la  Rotonde,  in 
the  Palais  Royal;  when  you 
call  for  coffee,  he  says  '  Bourn !'  in  basso 
profondo.      Tiefstimme  —  F.  moll   below 
the  line — it  is  phenomenal!     It  is  like  a 
cannon— a   cannon   also  has  very  good 
production,  matemoiselle.     They  pay  him 
for  it  a  thousand  francs  a  year,  because 
he  brings  many  customers  to  the  Cafe  de 
la  Rotonde,  where  the  coffee  isn't  very 
good.     When  he   dies   they  will   search 
all  France  for  another,  and  then  all  Ger- 
many, where  the  good  big  waiters  come 
from — and   the   cannons — but   they  will 
not  find  him,  and  the  Cafe  de  la  Rotonde 
will  be  bankrupt — unless  you  will  consent 
to  take  his  place.     Will  you  permit  that  I 
shall  look  in  to  your  mouth, matemoiselle?" 

She  opened  her  mouth  wide,  and  he 
looked  into  it. 

"Himmel!  the  roof  of  your  mouth  is 
like  the  dome  of  the  Pantheon;  there  is 
room  in  it  for  '  toutes  les  gloires  de  la 
France,'  and  a  little  to  spare!     The  en- 


himmel!   the  roof  of  your  mouth!" 


trance  to  your  throat  is  like  the  middle 
porch  of  St.-Sulpice  when  the  doors  are 
open  for  the  faithful  on  All-Saints  day; 
and  not  one  is  missing — thirty-two  Brit- 
ish teeth  as  white  as  milk  and  as  big  as 
knuckle-bones!  and  your  little  tongue  is 
scooped  out  like  the  leaf  of  a  pink  pe- 
ony, and  the  bridge  of  your  nose  is  like 
the  belly  of  a  Stradivarius — what  a  sound- 
ing board  !  and  inside  your  beautiful  big 
chest  the  lungs  are  made  of  leather!  and 
your  breath,  it  embalms — like  the  breath 
of  a  beautiful  white  heifer  fed  on  the  but- 
tercups and  daisies  of  the  father-land! 
and  you  have  a  quick,  soft,  susceptible 
heart,  a  heart  of  gold,  matemoiselle — all 
that  sees  itself  in  your  face ! 

'  Votre  coeur  est  un  luth  suspendu  ! 
Aussitot  qu'on  le  touche,  il  resonne . . . .' 

What  a  pity  you  have  not  also  the  mu- 
sical organization!" 

"  Oh,  but  I  have,  monsieur;  you  heard 


HARPER'S  NEW  MONTHLY  MAGAZINE. 


"gE   FERA   UNE   FAMEUSE 
CRAPULE   DE   MOINS!" 


me  sing  'Ben  Bolt,' didn't 
you  ?  What  makes  you 
say  that  ?" 

Svengali  was  confused  for  a  moment. 
Then  he  said : 

"When  I  play  the  'Rosemonde'  of 
Schubert,  matemoiselle,  you  look  another 
way  and  smoke  a  cigarette ....  You  look 
at  the  big  Taffy,  at  the  Little  Billee,  at 
the  pictures  on  the  walls,  or  out  of  win- 
dow, at  the  sky,  the  chimney-pots  of 
Notre  Dame  de  Paris;  you  do  not  look  at 
Svengali! — Svengali,  who  looks  at  you 
with  all  his  eyes,  and  plays  you  the 
4  Rosemonde '  of  Schubert !" 

"Oh,  maie,  aie !"  exclaimed  Trilby; 
"you  do  use  lovely  language!" 

"  But  never  mind,  matemoiselle;  when 
your  pain  arrives,  then  shall  you  come 
once  more  to  Svengali,  and  he  shall  take 
it  away  from  you,  and  keep  it  himself  for 
a  sou  fen  ir  of  you  when  you  are  gone. 
And  when  you  have  it  no  mOre,  he  shall 
play  you  the  '  Rosemonde'  of  Schubert,  all 
alone  for  you;  and  then,  'Messieurs  les 
etutiants,  montez  a  la  chaumiere!'. . .  .be- 
cause it  is  gayer!  And  you  shall  see 
nothing,  hear  nothing,  think  of  nothing 
but  Svengali,  Svengali,  Svengali  /" 

Here  he  felt  his  peroration  to  be  so 
happy  and  effective  that  he  thought  it 
well  to  go  at  once  and  make  a  good  exit. 
So  he  bent  over  Trilby's  shapely  freckled 
hand  and  kissed  it,  and  bowed  himself 


out  of  the  room,  with- 
out even  borrowing  his 
five-franc  piece. 

"He's  a  rum  'un, 
ain't  he?"  said  Trilby. 
"He  reminds  me  of  a 
big  hungry  spider,  and 
makes  me  feel  like  a 
fly!  But  he's  cured 
my  pain !  he's  cured 
my  pain  !  Ah !  you 
don't  know  what  my 
pain  is  when  it  comes !" 
"I  wouldn't  have 
much  to  do  with  him, 
all  the  same !"  said 
the  Laird.  ' '  I'd  sooner 
have  any  pain  than 
have  it  cured  in  that 
unnatural  way,  and  by 
such  a  man  as  that! 
He's  a  bad  fellow,  Sven- 
gali— I'm  sure  of  it!  He 
mesmerized  you;  that's 
what  it  is — mesmerism  ! 
I've  often  heard  of  it, 
but  never  seen  it  done 
before.  They  get  you 
into  their  power,  and  just  make  you  do 
any  blessed  thing  they  please — lie,  mur- 
der, steal  —  anything!  and  kill  yourself 
into  the  bargain  when  they've  done  with 
you !     It's  just  too  terrible  to  think  of !" 

So  spake  the  Laird,  earnestly,  solemnly, 
surprised  out  of  his  usual  self,  and  most 
painfully  impressed — and  his  own  impres- 
siveness  grew  upon  him  and  impressed 
him  still  more.  He  loomed  quite  pro- 
phetic. 

Cold  shivers  went  down  Trilby's  back 
as  she  listened.  She  had  a  singularly  im- 
pressionable nature,  as  was  shown  by  her 
quick  and  ready  susceptibility  to  Sven- 
gali's  hypnotic  influence.  And  all  that 
day,  as  she  posed  for  Durien  (to  whom 
she  did  not  mention  her  adventure),  she 
was  haunted  by  the  memory  of  Svengali's 
big  eyes  and  the  touch  of  his  soft  dirty 
finger-tips  on  her  face;  and  her  fear  and 
her  repulsion  grew  together. 

And  "Svengali,  Svengali,  Svengali!" 
went  ringing  in  her  head  and  ears  till  it 
became  an  obsession,  a  dirge,  a  knell,  an 
unendurable  burden,  almost  as  hard  to 
bear  as  the  pain  in  her  eyes. 

"  Svengali,  Svengali?  Svengali  /" 
At  last  she  asked  Durien  if  he  knew 
him. 

"  Parbleu !     Si  je  connais  Svengali !" 


TRILBY. 


337 


11  Quest-ce  que  t'en  penses?" 
"  Quand  il  sera  mort,  ce  fera  une  fa- 
meuse  crapule  de  moins!" 

"CHEZ    CARREL." 

Carrel's  atelier  (or  painting-school)  was 
in  the  Rue  Notre  Dame  des  Potirons  St.- 
Michael,  at  the  end  of  a  large  court-yard, 
where  there  were  many  large  dirty  win- 
dows facing  north,  and  each  window  let 
the  light  of  heaven  into  a  large  dirty 
studio. 

The  largest  of  these  studios,  and  the  dirt- 
iest, was  Carrel's,  where  some  thirty  or 
forty  art  students  drew  and  painted  from 
the  nude  model  every  day  but  Sunday 
from  eight  till  twelve,  and  for  two  hours 
in  the  afternoon,  except  on  Saturdays, 
when  the  afternoon  was  devoted  to  much- 
needed  Augean  sweepings  and  cleanings. 


The  bare  walls  were  adorned  with  end- 
less caricatures — des  charges — in  charcoal 
and  white  chalk;  and  also  the  scrapings 
of  many  palettes — a  polychromous  deco- 
ration not  un pleasing. 

For  the  freedom  of  the  studio  and  the 
use  of  the  model  each  student  paid  ten 
francs  a  month  to  the  massier,  or  senior 
student,  the  responsible  bell-wether  of  the 
flock ;  besides  this,  it  was  expected  of  you, 
on  your  entrance  or  initiation,  that  you 
should  pay  for  your  footing  —  your  bien- 
venue — some  thirty,  forty,  or  fifty  francs, 
to  be  spent  on  cakes  and  rum  punch  all 
round. 

Every  Friday  Monsieur  Carrel,  a  great 
artist,  and  also  a  stately,  well-dressed,  and 
most  courteous  gentleman  (duly  decora- 
ted with  the  red  rosette  of  the  Legion  of 
Honor),  came  for  two  or  three  hours  and 


AV   YOU    SEEN   MY   FAHZERE'S    OLE   SHOES?' 


One  week  the  model  was  male,  the  next 
female,  and  so  on,  alternating  throughout 
the  year. 

A  stove,  a  model-throne,  stools,  boxes, 
some  fifty  strongly  built  low  chairs  with 
backs,  a  couple  of  score  easels  and  many 
drawing-boards,  completed  the  mobilier. 


went  the  round,  spending  a  few  minutes 
at  each  drawing-board  or  easel — ten  or 
twelve  when  the  pupil  was  an  industrious 
and  promising  one. 

He  did  this  for  love,  not  money,  and 
deserved  all  the  reverence  with  which 
he  inspired  this  somewhat  irreverent  and 


338 


HARPER'S    NEW    MONTHLY    MAGAZINE. 


most  unruly  company,  which  was  made 
up  of  all  sorts. 

Graybeards  who  had  been  drawing  and 
painting  there  for  thirty  years  and  more, 
and  remembered  other  masters  than  Car- 
rel, and  who  could  draw  and  paint  a  torso 
almost  as  well  as  Titian  or  Velasquez— 
almost, but  not  quite— and  who  could  nev- 
er do  anything  else,  and  were  fixtures  at 
Carrel's  for  life. 

Younger  men  who  in  a  year  or  two,  or 
three  or  five,  or  ten  or  twenty,  were  bound 
to  make  their  mark,  and  perhaps  follow 
in  the  footsteps  of  the  master;  others  as 
conspicuously  singled  out  for  failure  and 
future  mischance  —  for  the  hospital,  the 
garret,  the  river,  the  Morgue,  or,  worse, 
the  traveller's  bag,  the  road,  or  even  the 
paternal  counter. 

Irresponsible  boys,  mere  rapins,  all 
laugh  and  chaff  and  mischief —  "  blague 
•et  bagout  Parisien";  little  lords  of  mis- 
rule— wits,  butts,  bullies;  the  idle  and  in- 
dustrious apprentice,  the  good  and  the 
bad,  the  clean  and  the  dirty  (especially 
the  latter) — all  more  or  less  animated  by  a 
certain  esprit  de  corps,  and  working  very 
happily  and  genially  together,  on  the 
whole,  and  always  willing  to  help  each 
other  with  sincere  artistic  counsel  if  it 
was  asked  for  seriously,  though  it  was 
not  always  couched  in  terms  very  flatter- 
ing to  one's  self-love. 

Before  Little  Billee  became  one  of  this 
band  of  brothers  he  had  been  working 
for  three  or  four  years  in  a  London  art 
school,  drawing  and  painting  from  the 
life;  he  had  also  worked  from  the  an- 
tique in  the  British  Museum — so  that  he 
was  no  novice. 

As  he  made  his  debut  at  Carrel's  one 
Monday  morning  he  felt  somewhat  shy 
and  ill  at  ease.  He  had  studied  French 
most  earnestly  at  home  in  England,  and 
could  read  it  pretty  well,  and  even  write 
it  and  speak  it  after  a  fashion;  but  he 
spoke  it  with  much  difficulty,  and  found 
studio  French  a  different  language  alto- 
gether from  the  formal  and  polite  lan- 
guage he  had  been  at  such  pains  to  learn. 
Ollendorff  does  not  cater  for  the  quartier 
latin.  Acting  on  Taffy's  ad  vice— for  Taffy 
had  worked  under  Carrel — Little  Billee 
handed  sixty  francs  to  the  massier  for 
his  bienvenue — a  lordly  sum  —  and  this 
liberality  made  a  most  favorable  impres- 
sion, and  went  far  to  destroy  any  little 
prejudice  that  might  have  been  caused 
by  the  daintiness  of  his  dress,  the  cleanli- 


ness of  his  person,  and  the  politeness  of 
his  manners.  A  place  was  assigned  to 
him,  and  an  easel  and  a  board;  for  he 
elected  to  stand  at  his  work  and  begin 
with  a  chalk  drawing.  The  model  (a 
male)  was  posed,  and  work  began  in  si- 
lence. Monday  morning  is  always  rather 
sulky  everywhere  (except  perhaps  in  ju- 
dee).  During  the  ten  minutes'  rest  three 
or  four  students  came  and  looked  at  Little 
Billee's  beginnings,  and  saw  at  a  glance 
that  he  thoroughly  well  knew  what  he 
was  about,  and  respected  him  for  it. 

Nature  had  given  him  a  singularly 
light  hand  —  or  rather  two,  for  he  was 
ambidextrous,  and  could  use  both  with 
equal  skill ;  and  a  few  months'  practice 
at  a  London  life  school  had  quite  cured 
him  of  that  purposeless  indecision  of  touch 
which  often  characterizes  the  prentice 
hand  for  years  of  apprenticeship,  and  re- 
mains with  the  amateur  for  life.  The 
lightest  and  most  careless  of  his  pencil 
strokes  had  a  precision  that  was  inimita- 
ble, and  a  charm  that  specially  belonged 
to  him,  and  was  easy  to  recognize  at  a 
glance.  His  touch  on  either  canvas  or 
paper  was  like  Svengali's  on  the  key- 
board—unique. 

As  the  morning  ripened  little  attempts 
at  conversation  were  made — little  break- 
ings of  the  ice  of  silence.  It  was  Lam- 
bert, a  youth  with  a  singularly  facetious 
face,  who  first  woke  the  stillness  with 
the  following  uncalled  for  remarks  in 
English  very  badly  pronounced: 

"  Av  you  seen  my  fahzere's  ole  shoes?" 
"lav  not  seen  my  fahzere's  ole  shoes." 
Then,  after  a  pause: 
"  Av  you  seen  my  fahzere's  ole  'at?" 
"lav  not  seen  my  fahzere's  ole  'at!" 
Presently  another  said,  "  Je  trouve  qu'il 
a  une  jolie  tete,  l'Anglais." 

But  I  will  put  it  all  into  English: 
"  I  find  that  he  has  a  pretty  head — the 
Englishman  !     What  say  you,  Barizel?" 

"Yes;  but  why  has  he  got  eyes  like 
brandy-balls,  two  a  penny?" 

"  Because  he's  an  Englishman  !" 
"Yes;   but  why  has  he  got  a  mouth 
like  a  guinea-pig,  with  two  big  teeth  in 
front  like    the    double   blank    at   domi- 
noes?" 

"  Because  he's  an  Englishman  !" 
"Yes ;  but  why  has  he  got  a  back  with- 
out any  bend  in  it,  as  if  he'd  swallowed 
the  Colonne  Vendome  as  far  up  as  the 
battle  of  Austerlitz?" 

"  Because  he's  an  Englishman!" 


TRILBY. 


339 


And  so  on,  till  all  the  supposed  char-         "  Avez-vous  une  sceur?" 
acteristics   of   Little   Billee's   outer  man         "Wee." 
were  exhausted.     Then: 

"Papelard!" 


"Est-ce  qu'elle  vous  ressemble?" 
"Nong." 


TAFFY    A   L,  ECHELLE  ! 


"What?" 

11  /  should  like  to  know  if  the  English- 
man says  his  prayers  before  going  to 
bed." 

"Ask  him." 

"Ask  him  yourself!" 

"  /should  like  to  know  if  the  English- 
man has  sisters;  and  if  so,  how  old  and 
how  many  and  what  sex." 

"Ask  him." 

"  Ask  him  yourself!" 

"J  should  like  to  know  the  detailed 
and  circumstantial  history  of  the  Eng- 
lishman's first  love,  and  how  he  lost  his 
innocence!" 

"  Ask  him,"  etc.,  etc.,  etc. 

Little  Billee,  conscious  that  he  was  the 
subject  of  conversation,  grew  somewhat 
nervous.  Soon  he  was  addressed  di- 
rectly. 

"Dites  done,  1' Anglais?" 

"Kwaw?"  said  Little  Billee. 


"  C'est  bien  dommage!  Est-ce  qu'elle 
dit  ses  prieres,  le  soir,  en  se  couch  ant?" 

A  fierce  look  came  into  Little  Billee's 
eyes  and  a  redness  to  his  cheeks,  and 
this  particular  form  of  overture  to  friend- 
ship was  abandoned. 

Presently  Lambert  said,  "Si  nous  met- 
tions  l'Anglais  a  rechelle?" 

Little  Billee,  who  had  been  warned, 
knew  what  this  ordeal  meant. 

They  tied  you  to  a  ladder,  and  carried 
you  in  procession  up  and  down  the 
court-yard,  and  if  you  were  nasty  about 
it  they  put  you  under  the  pump. 

During  the  next  rest  it  wTas  explained 
to  him  that  he  must  submit  to  this  indig- 
nity, and  the  ladder  (which  was  used  for 
reaching  the  high  shelves  round  the 
studio)  was  got  ready. 

Little  Billee  smiled  a  singularly  win- 
ning smile,  and  suffered  himself  to  be 
bound  with  such  good-humor  that  they 


340 


HARPER'S    NEW    MONTHLY   MAGAZINE. 


voted  it  wasn't  amusing,  and  unbound 
him,  and  he  escaped  the  ordeal  by  lad- 
der. 

Taffy  had  also  escaped,  but  in  another 
way.  When  they  tried  to  seize  him  he 
toofc:  up  the  first  rapin  that  came  to 
hand,  and  using  him  as  a  kind  of  club, 
he  swung  him  about  so  freely  and 
knocked  down  so  many  students  and 
easels  and  drawing-boards  with  him,  and 
made  such  a  terrific  rumpus,  that  the 
whole  studio  had  to  cry  for  "pax!" 
Then  he  performed  feats  of  strength  of 
such  a  surprising  kind  that  the  memory 
of  him  remained  in  Carrel's  studio  for 
years,  and  he  became  a  legend,  a  tradi- 
tion, a  myth!  It  is  now  said  (in  what 
still  remains  of  the  quartier  latin)  that 
he  was  seven  feet  high,  and  used  to  jug- 
gle with  the  massier  and  model  as  with  a 
pair  of  billiard  balls,  using  only  his  left 
hand! 

To  return  to  Little  Billee.  When  it 
struck  twelve,  the  cakes  and  rum  punch 
arrived  —  a  very  goodly  sight  that  put 
every  one  in  a  good  temper. 

The  cakes  were  of  three  kinds — Babas, 
Madeleines,  and  Savarins  —  three  sous 
apiece,  fourpence  halfpenny  the  set  of 
three.  No  nicer  cakes  are  made  in  France, 
and  they  are  as  good  in  the  quartier  lat- 
in as  anywhere  else;  no  nicer  cakes  are 
made  in  the  whole  world  that  I  know  of. 
You  must  begin  with  the  Madeleine,  which 
is  rich  and  rather  heavy;  then  the  Baba; 
and  finish  up  with  the  Savarin,  which  is 
shaped  like  a  ring,  very  light,  and  flavor- 
ed with  rum.  And  then  you  must  really 
leave  off. 

The  rum  punch  was  tepid,  very  sweet, 
and  not  a  bit  too  strong. 

They  dragged  the  model -throne  into 
the  middle,  and  a  chair  was  put  on  for 
Little  Billee,  who  dispensed  his  hospital- 
ity in  a  very  polite  and  attractive  manner, 
helping  the  massier  first,  and  then  the 
other  graybeards  in  the  order  of  their 
grayness,  and  so  on  down  to  the  model. 

Presently,  just  as  he  was  about  to  help 
himself,  he  was  asked  to  sing  them  an 
English  song.  After  a  little  pressing  he 
sang  them  a  song  about  a  gay  cavalier  who 
went  to  serenade  his  mistress,  (and  a  lad- 
der of  ropes,  and  a  pair  of  masculine  gloves 
that  didn't  belong  to  the  gay  cavalier,  but 
which  he  found  in  his  lady's  bower,) — a 
poor  sort  of  song,  but  it  was  the  nearest 
approach  to  a  comic  song  he  knew.  There 
are  four  verses  to  it,  and  each   verse  is 


rather  long.  It  does  not  sound  at  all 
funny  to  a  French  audience,  and  even 
with  an  English  one  Little  Billee  was  not 
good  at  comic  songs. 

He  was,  however,  much  applauded  at 
the  end  of  each  verse.  When  he  had 
finished,  he  was  asked  if  he  were  quite 
sure  there  wasn't  any  more  of  it,  and  they 
expressed  a  deep  regret ;  and  then  each 
student,  straddling  on  his  little  thick-set 
chair  as  on  a  horse,  and  clasping  the  back 
of  it  in  both  hands,  galloped  round  Lit- 
tle Bil lee's  throne  quite  seriously — the 
strangest  procession  he  had  ever  seen. 
It  made  him  laugh  till  he  cried,  so  that 
he  couldn't  eat  or  drink. 

Then  he  served  more  punch  and  cake 
all  round;  and  just  as  he  was  going  to 
begin  himself,  Papelard  said, 

"Say,  you  others,  I  find  that  the  Eng- 
lishman has  something  of  truly  distin- 
guished in  the  voice,  something  of  sym- 
pathetic, of  touching — something  of  je  ne 
sais  quoil" 

Bouchardy:  "Yes,  yes — something  of 
je  ne  sais  quoi  !  That's  the  very  phrase — 
n'est-ce  pas,  vous  autres,  that  is  a  good 
phrase  that  Papelard  has  just  invented 
to  describe  the  voice  of  the  Englishman. 
He  is  very  intelligent,  Papelard." 

Chorus:  "Perfect,  perfect;  he  has  the 
genius  of  characterization,  Papelard. 
Dites  done,  1' Anglais!  once  more  that 
beautiful  song  —  hein?  Nous  vous  en 
prions  tous." 

Little  Billee  willingly  sang  it  again, 
with  even  greater  applause,  and  again 
they  galloped,  but  the  other  way  round 
and  faster,  so  that  little  Billee  became 
quite  hysterical,  and  laughed  till  his  sides 
ached. 

Then  Dubosc:  "I  find  there  is  some- 
thing of  very  capitous  and  exciting  in 
English  music — of  very  stimulating.  And 
you,  Bouchardy?" 

Bouchardy:  "Oh,  me!  It  is  above  all 
the  words  that  I  admire ;  they  have  some- 
thing of  passionate,  of  romantic — '  ze-ese 
gla-aves,  zese  gla-aves— zey  do  not  belong 
to  me.'  I  don't  know  what  that  means, 
but  I  love  that  sort  of — of — of — of— je  ne 
sais  quoi,  in  short!  Just  once  more, 
l'Anglais;  only  once,  the  four  couplets." 

So  he  sang  it  a  third  time,  all  four 
verses,  while  they  leisurely  ate  and  drank 
and  smoked  and  looked  at  each  other, 
nodding  solemn  commendation  of  certain 
phrases  in  the  song:  "Tresbien!"  "Tres 
bien!"     "Ah!  voila  qui  est  bien  reussi!" 


TRILBY. 


341 


* '  Epatant,  ca !"  ' '  Tres  fin !"  etc. ,  etc.  For, 
stimulated  by  success,  and  rising  to  the 
occasion,  be  did  his  very  utmost  to  sur- 
pass himself  in  emphasis  of  gesture  and 
accent  and  histrionic  drollery — heedless 
of  the  fact  that  not  one  of  his  listeners 
had  the  slightest  notion  what  his  song 
was  about. 


more  genial,  more  cheerful,  self-respect- 
ing, considerate,  and  polite,  and  certainly 
none  with  greater  gifts  for  art. 

Carrel  would  devote  at  least  fifteen 
minutes  to  him,  and  invited  him  often  to 
his  own  private  studio.  And  often,  on 
the  fourth  or  fifth  day  of  the  week,  a 
group    of   admiring   students    would   be 


"THE   FOX   AND   THE   CROW.' 


It  was  a  sorry  performance. 

And  it  was  not  till  he  had  sung  it  four 
times  that  he  discovered  the  whole  thing 
was  an  elaborate  impromptu  farce,  of 
which  he  was  the  butt,  and  that  of  all  his 
royal  spread  not  a  crumb  or  a  drop  was 
left  for  himself. 

It  was  the  old  fable  of  the  fox  and  the 
crow !  And  to  do  him  justice,  he  laughed 
as  heartily  as  any  one,  as  if  he  thoroughly 
enjoyed  the  joke — and  when  you  take 
jokes  in  that  way  people  soon  leave  off 
poking  fun  at  you.  It  is  almost  as  good 
as  being  very  big,  like  Taffy,  and  having 
a  choleric  blue  eye! 

Such  was  Little  Billee's  first  experience 
of  Carrel's  studio,  where  he  spent  many 
happy  mornings  and  made  many  good 
friends. 

No  more  popular  student  had  ever 
worked  there  within  the  memory  of  the 
grayest  graybeards;  none  more  amiable, 


gathered  by  his  easel  watching  him  as  he 
worked. 

"C'est  un  rude  lapin,  1' Anglais!  au 
moins  il  sait  son  orthographe  en  peinture, 
ce  coco-la!" 

Such  was  the  verdict  on  Little  Billee  at 
Carrel's  studio;  and  I  can  conceive  no 
loftier  praise. 


Young  as  she  was  (seventeen  or 
eighteen,  or  thereabouts),  and  also  tender 
(like  Little  Billee),  Trilby  had  singularly 
clear  and  quick  perceptions  in  all  matters 
that  concerned  her  tastes,  fancies,  or  af- 
fections, and  thoroughly  knew  her  own 
mind,  and  never  lost  much  time  in  making 
it  up. 

On  the  occasion  of  her  first  visit  to  the 
studio  in  the  Place  St.-Anatole  des  Arts, 
it  took  her  just  five  minutes  to  decide  that 


342 


HARPER'S  NEW   MONTHLY   MAGAZINE. 


it  was  quite  the  nicest,  homeliest,  genial- 
est,  jolliest  studio  in  the  whole  quartier 
latin,  or  out  of  it,  and  that  its  three  in- 
habitants, individually  and  collectively, 
were  more  to  her  taste  than  any  one  else 
she  had  ever  met. 

In  the  first  place,  they  were  English, 
and  she  loved  to  hear  her  mother- tongue 
and  speak  it.  It  awoke  all  manner  of 
tender  recollections,  sweet  reminiscences 
of  her  childhood,  her  parents,  her  old 
home — such  a  home  as  it  was — or,  rather, 
such  homes;  for  there  had  been  many 
flittings  from  one  poor  nest  to  another. 
The  O'Ferralls  had  been  as  birds  on  the 
bough. 

She  had  loved  her  parents  very  dearly; 
and,  indeed,  with  all  their  faults,  they  had 
many  endearing  qualities— the  qualities 
that  so  often  go  with  those  particular 
faults— charm,  geniality, kindness,  warmth 
of  heart,  the  constant  wish  to  please,  the 
generosity  that  comes  before  justice,  and 
lends  its  last  sixpence  and  forgets  to  pay 
its  debts! 

She  knew  other  English  and  American 
artists,  and  had  sat  to  them  frequently  for 
the  head  and  hands;  but  none  of  these, 
for  general  agreeableness  of  aspect  or 
manner,  could  compare  in  her  mind  with 
the  stalwart  and  magnificent  Taffy,  the 
jolly  fat  Laird  of  Cockpen,  the  refined, 
sympathetic,  and  elegant  Little  Billee; 
and  she  resolved  that  she  would  see  as 
much  of  them  as  she  could,  that  she  would 
make  herself  at  home  in  that  particular 
studio,  and  necessary  to  its  "  locataires," 
and  without  being  the  least  bit  vain  or 
self-conscious,  she  had  no  doubts  whatever 
of  her  power  to  please— to  make  herself 
both  useful  and  ornamental  if  it  suited 
her  purpose  to  do  so. 

Her  first  step  in  this  direction  was  to 
borrow  Pere  Martin's  basket  and  lantern 
and  pick  (he  had  more  than  one  set  of 
these  trade  properties)  for  the  use  of  Taffy, 
whom  she  feared  she  might  have  offended 
by  the  freedom  of  her  comments  on  his 
picture. 

Then,  as  often  as  she  felt  it  to  be  dis- 
creet, she  sounded  her  war-cry  at  the 
studio  door  and  went  in  and  made  kind 
inquiries,  and  sitting  cross-legged  on  the 
model -throne,  ate  her  bread  and  cheese 
and  smoked  her  cigarette  and  passed  the 
time  of  day,  as  she  chose  to  call  it;  telling 
them  all  such  news  of  the  quartier  as  had 
come  within  her  own  immediate  ken.  She 
was  always  full  of  little  stories  of  other 


studios,  which,  to  do  her  justice,  were  al- 
ways good-natured,  and  probably  true — 
quite  so  as  far  as  she  was  concerned;  she 
was  the  most  literal  person  alive;  and  she 
told  all  these  "  ragots,  cancans,  et  potins 
d'atelier  "  in  a  quaint  and  amusing  man- 
ner. The  slightest  look  of  gravity  or 
boredom  on  one  of  those  three  faces,  and 
she  made  herself  scarce  at  once. 

She  soon  found  opportunities  for  use- 
fulness also.  If  a  costume  were  wanted, 
for  instance,  she  knew  where  to  borrow 
it,  or  hire  it  or  buy  it  cheaper  than  any 
one  anywhere  else.  She  procured  stuffs 
for  them  at  cost  price,  as  it  seemed,  and 
made  them  into  draperies  and  female 
garments  of  any  kind  that  was  wanted, 
and  sat  in  them  for  the  toreador's  sweet- 
heart (she  made  the  mantilla  herself),  for 
Taffy's  starving  dressmaker  about  to 
throw  herself  into  the  Seine,  for  Little 
Billee's  studies  of  the  beautiful  French 
peasant  girl  in  his  picture,  now  so  fa- 
mous, called  "The  Pitcher  goes  to  the 
Well." 

Then  she  darned  their  socks  and  mend- 
ed their  clothes,  and  got  all  their  wash- 
ing done  properly  and  cheaply  at  her 
friend  Madame  Boisse's,  in  the  Rue  des 
Cloitres  Ste.-Petronille. 

And  then  again,  when  they  were  hard 
up  and  wanted  a  good  round  sum  of 
money  for  some  little  pleasure  excursion, 
such  as  a  trip  to  Fontainebleau  or  Bar- 
bizon  for  two  or  three  days,  it  was  she 
who  took  their  watches  and  scarf-pins 
and  things  to  the  Mount  of  Piety  in  the 
Street  of  the  Well  of  Love  (where  dwelt 
"ma  tante,"  which  is  French  for  "my 
uncle"  in  this  connection),  in  order  to 
raise  the  necessary  funds. 

She  wTas,  of  course,  most  liberally  paid 
for  all  these  little  services,  rendered  with 
such  pleasure  and  good-will — far  too  lib- 
erally, she  thought.  She  would  have 
been  really  happier  doing  them  for  love. 

Thus  in  a  very  short  time  she  became 
a  persona  gratissima — a  sunny  and  ever 
welcome  vision  of  health  and  grace  and 
liveliness  and  unalterable  good-humor, 
always  ready  to  take  any  trouble  to  please 
her  beloved  "Angliches,"  as  they  were 
called  by  Madame  Vinard,  the  handsome 
shrill-voiced  concierge,  who  was  almost 
jealous;  for  she  was  devoted  to  the  An- 
gliches too — and  so  was  Monsieur  Vinard 
— and  so  were  the  little  Vinards. 

She  knew  when  to  talk  and  when  to 
laugh  and  when  to  hold  her  tongue;  and 


CUISINE   BOURGEOISE   EN   BOHEME. 


the  sight  of  her  sitting  cross-legged  on 
the  model- thro ne  darning  the  Laird's  socks 
or  sewing  buttons  on  his  shirts  or  repair- 
ing the  smoke-holes  in  his  trousers  was 
so  pleasant  that  it  was  painted  by  all 
three.  One  of  these  sketches  (in  water- 
color,  by  Little  Billee)  sold  the  other  day 
at  Christie's  for  a  sum  so  large  that  I 
hardly  dare  to  mention  it.  It  was  done 
in  an  afternoon. 

Sometimes  on  a  rainy  day,  when  it 
was  decided  they  should  dine  at  home, 
she  would  fetch  the  food  and  cook  it,  and 
lay  the  cloth,  and  even  make  the  salad. 
She  was  a  better  saladist  than  Taffy,  a 
better  cook  than  the  Laird,  a  better  caterer 
than  Little  Billee.  And  she  would  be  in- 
vited to  take  her  share  in  the  banquet. 
And  on  these  occasions  her  tremulous 
happiness  was  so  immense  that  it  would 
be  quite  pathetic  to  see — almost  painful; 
and  their  three  British  hearts  were  touch- 
ed by  thoughts  of  all  the  loneliness  and 
homelessness,  the  expatriation,  the  half- 
conscious  loss  of  caste,  that  all  this  eager 
childish  clinging  revealed. 

And  that  is  why  (no  doubt)  that  with 
all  this  familiar  intimacy  there  was  never 
any  hint  of  gallantry  or  flirtation  in  any 


shape  or  form  whatever — bonne  camara- 
derie, voila  tout.  Had  she  been  Little 
Billee's  sister  she  could  not  have  been 
treated  with  more  real  respect.  And  her 
deep  gratitude  for  this  unwonted  compli- 
ment transcended  any  passion  she  had 
ever  felt.  As  the  good  Lafontaine  so* 
prettily  says, 
"Ces  animaux  vivaient  entre  eux  corame  cousins;. 

Cette  union  si  douce,  et  presque  fraternelle, 

Edifiait  tous  les  voisins!" 

And  then  their  talk!  It  was  to  her  as 
the  talk  of  the  gods  in  Olympus,  save 
that  it  was  easier  to  understand,  and  she 
could  always  understand  it.  For  she  was 
a  very  intelligent  person,  in  spite  of  her 
wofully  neglected  education,  arid  most 
ambitious  to  learn — a  new  ambition  for 
her. 

So  they  lent  her  books — English  books; 
Dickens,  Thackeray,  Walter  Scott— which 
she  devoured  in  the  silence  of  the  night, 
the  solitude  of  her  little  attic  in  the  Rue 
des  Pousse-Cailloux,  and  new  worlds  were 
revealed  to  her.  She  grew  more  English 
every  day;  and  that  was  a  good  thing. 

Trilby  speaking  English  and  Trilby 
speaking  French  were  two  different  be- 
ings.    Trilby's  English  was  more  or  less 


344 


HARPER'S    NEW    MONTHLY    MAGAZINE. 


that  of  her  father,  a  highly  educated  man  ; 
her  mother,  who  was  a  Scotch  woman,  al- 
though an  uneducated  one,  had  none  of 
the  ungainliness  that  mars  the  speech  of 
so  many  English  women  in  that  humble 
rank — no  droppings  of  the  h,  no  broaden- 
ing of  the  o's  and  a's. 

Trilby's  French  was  that  of  the  quar- 
tier  latin— droll,  slangy,  piquant,  quaint, 
picturesque — quite  the  reverse  of  ungain- 
ly, but  in  which  there  was  scarcely  a  turn 
of  phrase  that  would  not  stamp  the  speak- 
er as  being  hopelessly,  emphatically  "no 
lady!"  Though  it  was  funny  without  being 
vulgar,  it  was  perhaps  a  little  too  funny ! 

And  she  handled  her  knife  and  fork  in 
the  dainty  English  way,  as  no  doubt  her 
father  had  done — and  his;  and,  indeed, 
generally  when  alone  with  them  she  was 
so  absolutely  "  like  a  lady  "  that  it  seemed 
quite  odd  (though  very  seductive)  to  see 
her  in  a  grisette's  cap  and  dress  and  apron. 
So  much  for  her  English  training. 


THE   SOFT   EYES. 


But  enter  a  Frenchman  or  two,  and  a 
transformation  effected  itself  immediately 
— a  new  incarnation  of  Trilby ness  —  so 
droll  and  amusing  that  it  was  difficult  to 
decide  which  of  her  two  incarnations  was 
the  most  attractive. 


It  must  be  admitted  that  she  had  her 
faults — like  Little  Billee. 

For  instance,  she  would  be  miserably 
jealous  of  any  other  woman  who  came  to 
the  studio,  to  sit  or  scrub  or  sweep  or  do 
anything  else,  even  of  the  dirty  tipsy  old 
hag  who  sat  for  Taffy's  "found  drowned  " 
— "as  if  she  couldn't  have  sat  for  it  her- 
self!" 

And  then  she  would  be  cross  and  sulky, 
but  not  for  long — an  injured  martyr, 
soon  ready  to  forgive  and  be  forgiven. 

She  would  give  up  any  sitting  to  come 
and  sit  to  her  three  English  friends. 
Even  Durien  had  serious  cause  for  com- 
plaint. 

Then  her  affection  was  exacting;  she 
always  wanted  to  be  told  one  was  fond 
of  her;  and  she  dearly  loved  her  own 
way,  even  in  the  sewing  on  of  buttons 
and  the  darning  of  socks,  which  was  in- 
nocent enough.  But  when  it  came  to  the 
cutting  and  fashioning  of  garments  for  a 
toreador's  bride,  it  was  a  nuisance  not  to 
be  borne! 

"What  could  she  know  of  toreadors' 
brides  and  their   wedding   dresses?"  the 
Laird  would  indignantly  ask — as   if  he 
were  a  toreador  himself;  and  this  was  the 
aggravating    side 
of  her  irrepressi- 
ble Trilby  ness. 

In    the   caress- 
ing,     demonstra- 
tive tenderness  of 
her  friendship  she 
"made    the    soft 
eyes  "       at       all 
three    indiscrimi- 
nately. But  some- 
times Little  Billee 
would     look     up 
from  his  work  as 
she    was     sitting 
to    Taffy    or    the 
Laird,    and    find 
her      gray      eyes 
fixed       on      him 
with    an    all -en- 
folding   gaze,    so 
piercingly,    pene- 
tratingly,     unut- 
terably sweet  and 
kind  and  tender,  such  a  brooding,  dove- 
like look  of  soft  and  warm  solicitude,  that 
he  would  feel  a  flutter  at  his  heart,  and 
his  hand  would  shake  so  that  he  could 
not  paint;   and   in   a  waking  dream   he 
would   remember   that   his   mother    had 


TRILBY. 


345 


yyy-^j 


often  looked  at  him  like  that  when  he 
was  a  small  boy,  and  she  a  beautiful 
young  woman  untouched  by  care  or  sor- 
row; and  the  tear  that  always  lay  in 
readiness  so  close  to  the  corner  of  Little 
Billee's  eye  would  find  it  very  difficult  to 
keep  itself  in  its  proper  place — unshed. 

And  at  such  mo- 
ments tbe  thought 
that  Trilby  sat  for 

the    figure    would  :,W 

go    through    him  v~ 

like  a  knife. 

She  did  not  sit 
promiscuously  to 
anybody  who  ask- 
ed, it  is  true.  But 
she  still  sat  to 
Durien  ;  to  the 
great  Gerome;  to 
M.  Carrel,  who 
scarcely  used  any 
other  model. 

G ,  to  whom 

she  sat  for  his 
Phryne,  once  told 
me  that  the  sight 
of  her  thus  was  a 
thing  to  melt  Sir 
Galahad, and  sober 
Silenus,  and  chast- 
en Jove  himself — 
a  thing  to  Quix- 
otize     a     modern 

French  masher.  I  can  well  believe  him. 
For  myself,  I  only  speak  of  Trilby  as  I 
have  seen  her— clothed  and  in  her  right 
mind.  She  never  sat  to  me  for  any  Phry- 
ne, nor  did  I  ever  ask  her.  But  I 
have  worked  from  many  female  models 
in  many  countries,  some  of  them  the  best 
of  their  kind.  I  have  also,  like  Svengali, 
seen  Taffy  "trying  to  get  himself  clean,1' 
either  at  home,  or  in  the  swimming-baths 
of  the  Seine;  and  never  a  sitting  woman 
among  them  all  who  could  match  for  grace 
or  finish  or  splendor  of  outward  form 
that  mighty  Yorkshireman  sitting  in  his 
tub,  or  sunning  himself,  like  Ilyssus,  at 
the  Bains  Henri  Quatre,  or  taking  his  run- 
ning header,  a  la  hussarde,  off  the  spring- 
board at  the  Bains  Deligny,  with  a  group 
of  wondering  Frenchmen  gathered  round. 

Sometimes  Trilby  would  bring  her  little 
brother  to  the  studio  in  the  Place  St.- 
Anatole  des  Arts,  in  his  "beaux  habits  de 
Paques,"  his  hair  well  curled  and  poma- 
tumed, his  hands  and  face  well  washed. 

Vol.  LXXXVIII.— No.  525.-32 


He  was  a  very  engaging  little  mortal. 
The  Laird  would  fill  his  pockets  full 
of  Scotch  goodies,  and  paint  him  as  a  lit- 
tle Spaniard  in  "  Le  Fils  du  Toreador,"  a 
sweet  little  Spaniard  with  blue  eyes,  and 
curly  locks  as  light  as  tow,  and  a  com- 
plexion of  milk  and  roses,  in  singular  and 


ILYSSUS. 


piquant  contrast  to  his  swarthy  progen- 
itor. 

Taffy  would  use  him  as  an  Indian  club 
or  a  dumbbell,  to  the  child's  infinite  de- 
light, and  swing  him  on  the  trapeze,  and 
teach  him  "la  boxe." 

And  the  sweetness  and  fun  of  his  shrill, 
happy,  infantile  laughter  (which  was  like 
an  echo  of  Trilby's,  only  an  octave  high- 
er) so  moved  and  touched  and  tickled  one 
that  Taffy  had  to  look  quite  fierce,  so  he 
might  hide  the  strange  delight  of  tender- 
ness that  somehow  filled  his  manly  bosom 
at  the  mere  sound  of  it  (lest  Little  Billee 
and  the  Laird  should  think  him  goody- 
goody)  ;  and  the  fiercer  Taffy  looked,  the 
less  this  small  mite  was  afraid  of  him. 

Little  Billee  made  a  beautiful  water- 
color  sketch  of  him,  just  as  he  was,  and 
gave  it  to  Trilby,  who  gave  it  to  le  pere 
Martin,  who  gave  it  to  his  wife  with  strict 
injunctions  not  to  sell  it  as  an  old  master. 
Alas !  it  is  an  old  master  now,  and  Heaven 
only  knows  who  has  got  it! 

Those  were  happy  days  for  Trilby's  lit- 


346 


HARPER'S    NEW    MONTHLY    MAGAZINE. 


tie  brother,  happy  days  for  Trilby,  who 
was  immensely  fond  of  him,  and  very 
proud.  And  the  happiest  day  of  all  was 
when  the  Trois  Angliches  took  Trilby  and 
Jeannot(forso  the  mite  was called)to  spend 
the  Sunday  in  the  woods  at  Meudon,  and 
breakfast  and  dine  at  the  garde  cham- 
petre's.  Swings,  peep-shows, donkey-rides ; 
shooting  at  a  mark  with  crossbows  and 
little  pellets  of  clay,  and  smashing  little 
plaster  figures  and  winning  macaroons; 
losing  one's  self  in  the  beautiful  forest; 
catching  newts  and  tadpoles  and  young 
frogs;  making  music  on mirlitons.  Trilby 
singing  "Ben  Bolt"  into  a  mirliton  was 


the  son  of  a  worthy,  God- fearing,  Sab- 
bath-keeping Scotch  writer  to  the  signet. 

This  was  after  dinner,  in  the  garden,  at 
"la  loge  du  garde  champetre."  Taffy 
and  Jeannot  and  Little  Billee  made  the 
necessary  music  on  their  mirlitons,  and 
the  dancing  soon  became  general,  with 
plenty  also  to  look  on,  for  the  garde  had 
many  customers  who  dined  there  on  sum- 
mer Sundays. 

It  is  no  exaggeration  to  say  that  Trilby 
was  far  and  away  the  belle  of  that  partic- 
ular ball,  and  there  have  been  worse  balls 
in  much  finer  company,  and  far  plainer 
women ! 


voila  l'espayce  de  hom  ker  jer  swee!" 


a  thing  to  be  remembered,  whether  one 
would  or  no! 

Trilby  on  this  occasion  came  out  in  a 
new  character,  en  demoiselle,  with  a  little 
black  bonnet,  and  a  gray  jacket  of  her 
own  making. 

To  look  at  (but  for  her  loose  square- 
toed  heelless  silk  boots  laced  up  the  inner 
side),  she  might  have  been  the  daughter  of 
an  English  dean— until  she  undertook  to 
teach  the  Laird  some  favorite  cancan 
steps.  And  then  the  Laird  himself,  it 
must  be  admitted,  no  longer  looked  like 


Trilby  lightly  dancing  the  cancan 
(there  are  cancans  and  cancans)  was  a 
singularly  gainly  and  seductive  person — 
et  vera  incessu patuit  deal  Here,  again, 
she  was  funny  without  being  vulgar. 
And  for  mere  grace  (even  in  the  cancan), 
she  was  the  forerunner  of  Miss  Kate 
Vaughan  ;  and  for  sheer  fun,  the  precur- 
sor of  Miss  Nelly  Farren  ! 

And  the  Laird,  trying  to  dance  after  her, 
was  too  funny  for  words;  and  if  genuine 
popular  success  is  a  true  test  of  humor,  no 
greater  humorist  ever  danced  a, pas  seul. 


TRILBY. 


347 


What  Englishmen  could  do  in  France 
during-  the  fifties,  and  yet  manage  to  pre- 
serve their  self-respect,  and  even  the  re- 
spect of  their  respectable  French  friends ! 

"  Voila  l'espayce  de  horn  ker  jer  swee !" 
said  the  Laird,  every  time  he  bowed  in  ac- 
knowledgment of  the  applause  that  greet- 
ed his  performance  of  various  solo  steps 
of  his  own — Scotch  reels  and  sword-dances 
that  came  in  admirably.  .  .  . 

Then,  one  fine  day,  the  Laird  fell  ill, 
and  the  doctor  had  to  be  sent  for,  and  he 
ordered  a  nurse.  But  Trilby  would  hear 
of  no  nurses,  not  even  a  Sister  of  Charity! 
She  did  all  the  nursing  herself,  and  never 
slept  a  wink  for  three  successive  days  and 
nights. 

On  the  third  day  the  Laird  was  out  of 
all  danger,  the  delirium  was  past,  and  the 
doctor  found  poor  Trilby  fast  asleep  by 
the  bedside. 

Madame  Vmard,  at  the  bedroom  door, 
put  her  finger  to  her  lips,  and  whispered: 
"Quel  bonheur!  il  est  sauve,  M.  le  Doc- 
teur ;  ecoutez !  il  dit  ses  prieres  en  Anglais, 
ce  brave  garcon !" 

The  good  old  doctor,  who  didn't  under- 
stand a  word  of  English,  listened,  and 
heard  the  Laird's  voice,  weak  and  low, 
but  quite  clear,  and  full  of  heart-felt  fer- 
vor, intoning,  solemnly: 

"  Green  herbs,  red  peppers,  mussels,  saffron, 
Soles,  onions,  garlic,  roach,  and  dace — 
All  these  you  eat  at  Terre's  Tavern 
In  that  one  dish  of  bouillabaisse !" 

• '  Ah !  mais  c'est  tres  bien  de  sa  part,  ce 
brave  jeune  homme !  rendre  graces  au  ciel 
comme  cela,  quand  le  danger  est  passe! 
tres  bien,  tres  bien  I" 

Sceptic  and  Voltairian  as  he  was,  and 
not  the  friend  of  prayer,  the  good  doctor 
was  touched,  for  he  was  old,  and  therefore 
kind  and  tolerant,  and  made  allowances. 

And  afterwards  he  said  such  sweet 
things  to  Trilby  about  it  all,  and  about 
her  admirable  care  of  his  patient,  that  she 
positively  wept  with  delight — like  sweet 
Alice  with  hair  so  brown,  whenever  Ben 
Bolt  gave  her  a  smile. 

All  this  sounds  very  goody-goody,  but 
it's  true. 

So  it  will  be  easily  understood  how  the 
trois  Angliches  came  in  time  to  feel  for 
Trilby  quite  a  peculiar  regard,  and  looked 
forward  with  sorrowful  forebodings  to 
the  day  when  this  singular  and  pleasant 
little  quartet  would  have  to  be  broken  up, 
each  of  them  to  spread  his  wings  and  fly 
away  on  his  own  account,  and  poor  Trilby 


to  be  left  behind  all  by  herself.  They 
would  even  frame  little  plans  whereby  she 
might  better  herself  in  life,  and  avoid  the 
many  snares  and  pitfalls  that  would  beset 
her  lonely  path  in  the  quartier  latin 
when  they  were  gone. 

Trilby  never  thought  of  such  things  as 
these;  she  took  short  views  of  life,  and 
troubled  herself  about  no  morrows. 

There  was,  however,  one  jarring  figure 
in  her  little  fool's  paradise,  a  baleful 
and  most  ominous  figure  that  constantly 
crossed  her  path,  and  came  between  her 
and  the  sun,  and  threw  its  shadow  over 
her.  and  that  was  Svengali. 

He  also  was  a  frequent  visitor  at  the 
studio  in  the  Place  St.-Anatole,  where 
much  was  forgiven  him  for  the  sake  of  his 
music,  especially  when  he  came  with 
Gecko  and  they  made  music  together. 
But  it  soon  became  apparent  that  they  did 
not  come  there  to  play  to  the  three  An- 
gliches; it  was  to  see  Trilby,  whom  they 
both  had  taken  it  into  their  heads  to  adore, 
each  in  a  different  fashion: 

Gecko,  with  a  humble  doglike  worship 
that  expressed  itself  in  mute  pathetic  def- 
erence and  looks  of  lowly  self-deprecia- 
tion, of  apology  for  his  own  unworthy 
existence,  as  though  the  only  requital  he 
would  ever  dare  to  dream  of  were  a  word 
of  decent  politeness,  a  glance  of  tolerance 
or  good-will — a  mere  bone  to  a  dog. 

Svengali  was  a  bolder  wooer.  When 
he  cringed,  it  was  with  a  mock  humility 
full  of  sardonic  threats;  when  he  was 
playful,  it  was  with  a,  terrible  playfulness, 
like  that  of  a  cat  with  a  mouse — a  weird 
ungainly  cat,  and  most  unclean  ;  a  sticky, 
haunting,  long,  lean,  uncanny,  black  spi- 
der-cat, if  there  is  such  an  animal  out- 
side a  bad  dream. 

It  was  a  great  grievance  to  him  that 
she  had  suffered  from  no  more  pains  in 
her  eyes.  She  had ;  but  preferred  to  en- 
dure them  rather  than  seek  relief  from 
him. 

So  he  would  playfully  try  to  mesmerize 
her  with  his  glance,  and  sidle  up  nearer 
and  nearer  to  her,  making  passes  and 
counter-passes,  with  stern  command  in 
his  eyes,  till  she  would  shake  and  shiver 
and  almost  sicken  with  fear,  and  all  but 
feel  the  spell  come  over  her,  as  in  a  night- 
mare, and  rouse  herself  with  a  great  ef- 
fort and  escape. 

If  Taffy  were  there  he  would  interfere 
with  a  friendly  "Now  then,  old  fellow, 
none  of  that!"  and  a  jolly  slap  on  the 


348 


HARPER'S    NEW    MONTHLY    MAGAZINE. 


TIT   FOR   TAT. 


back,  which  would  make  Svengali  cough 
for  an  hour,  and  paralyze  his  mesmeric 
powers  for  a  week. 

Svengali  had  a  stroke  of  good  fortune. 
He  played  at  three  grand  concerts  with 
Gecko,  and  had  a  well -deserved  success. 
He  even  gave  a  concert  of  his  own,  which 
made  a  furor,  and  blossomed  out  into 
beautiful  and  costly  clothes  of  quite  ori- 
ginal color  and  shape  and  pattern,  so  that 
people  would  turn  round  and  stare  at 
him  in  the  street — a  thing  he  loved.  He 
felt  his  fortune  was  secure,  and  ran  into 
debt  with  tailors,  hatters,  shoemakers, 
jewellers,  but  paid  none  of  his  old  debts 
to  his  friends.  His  pockets  were  always 
full  of  printed  slips— things  that  had  been 
written  about  him  in  the  papers— and  he 
would  read  them  aloud  to  everybody  he 
knew,  especially  to  Trilby,  as  she  sat  darn- 
ing socks  on  the  model-throne  while  the 
fencing  and  boxing  were  in  train.      And 


he  would  lay  his  fame 
and  his  fortune  at  her 
feet,  on  condition  that 
she  should  share  her 
life  with  him. 

' '  Ach ,  himmel,  Dril- 
pyf'  he  would  say, 
"  you  don't  know 
what  it  is  to  be  a  great 
pianist  like  me,  hein ! 
What  is  your  Little 
Billee,  with  his  stink- 
ing oil -bladders,  sitting 
mum  in  his  corner,  his 
mahl stick  and  his  pal- 
ette in  one  hand,  and 
his  twiddling  little 
footle  pig's-hair  brush 
in  the  other!  What 
noise  does  he  make? 
When  his  little  fool  of 
a  picture  is  finished  he 
will  send  it  to  Lon- 
don, and  they  will 
hang  it  on  a  wall  with 
a  lot  of  others,  all  in  a 
line,  like  recruits  call- 
ed out  for  inspection, 
and  the  yawning  pub- 
lic will  walk  by  in  pro- 
cession and  inspect, 
and  say  '  d !'  Sven- 
gali will  go  to  London 
himself.  Ha!  ha!  He 
will  be  all  alone  on  a 
platform,  and  play  as 
nobody  else  can  play; 
hundreds  of  beautiful  Englander- 
inen  will  see  and  hear  and  go  mad 
with  love  for  him — Prinzessinen,  Com- 
tessin en, Serene  English  Altessinen.  They 
will  soon  lose  their  Serenity  and  their 
Highness  when  they  hear  Svengali !  They 
will  invite  him  to  their  palaces,  and  pay 
him  a  thousand  francs  to  play  for  them ; 
and  after,  he  will  loll  in  the  best  arm- 
chair, and  they  will  sit  all  round  him  on 
foot-stools,  and  bring  him  tea  and  gin 
and  kuchen  and  marrons  glaces,  and  lean 
over  him  and  fan  him— for  he  is  tired 
after  playing  them  for  a  thousand  francs 
of  Chopin!  Ha,  ha!  I  know  all  about 
it — hein? 

"And  he  will  not  look  at  them,  even! 
He  will  look  inwards,  at  his  own  dream 
— and  his  dream  will  be  about  Drilpy — 
to  lay  his  talent,  his  glory,  his  thousand 
francs,  at  her  beautiful  white  feet! 

"Their  stupid  big  fat  tow-headed  putty- 


and 


TRILBY. 


349 


nosed  husbands  will  be  mad  with  jealousy, 
and  long  to  box  him,  but  they  will  be 
afraid.  Ach !  those  beautiful  Anglaises! 
they  will  think  it  an  honor  to  mend  his 
shirts,  to  sew  buttons  on  his  pantaloons ; 
to  darn  his  socks,  as  you  are  doing  now 
for  that  sacred  imbecile  of  a  Scotchman 
who  is  always  trying  to  paint  toreadors, 
or  that  sweating  pig-headed  bullock  of  an 
Englander  who  is  always  trying  to  get 
himself  dirty  and  then  to  get  himself 
clean  again! — e  da  capo! 

"Himmel!  what  big  socks  are  those! 
what  potato-sacks ! 

"Look  at  your  Taffy !  what  is  he  good 
for  but  to  bang  great  musicians  on  the 
back  with  his  big  bear's  paw!  He  finds 
that  droll,  the  bullock! .... 

"Look  at  your  Frenchmen  there  — 
your  conceited  verfluchte  pig  -  dogs 
of  Frenchmen  —  Durien,  Barizel,  Bou- 
chardy  !  What  can  a  Frenchman  talk  of, 
hein?  Only  himself,  and  run  down  every- 
body else !  His  vanity  makes  me  sick ! 
He  always  thinks  the  world  is  talking 
about  him,  the  fool!  He  forgets  that 
there's  a  fellow  called  Svengali  for  the 
world  to  talk  about!  I  tell  you,  Drilpy, 
it  is  about  me  the  world  is  talking — me 
and  nobody  else — me,  me,  me! 

"  Listen  what  they  say  in  the  Figaro  " 
(reads  it). 

"What  do  you  think  of  that,  hein? 
What  would  your  Durien  say  if  people 
wrote  of  him  like  that? 

"But  you  are  not  listening,  sapper- 
ment!  great  big  she-fool  that  you  are  — 
sheepshead!  Dummkopf!  Donnerwetter! 
you  are  looking  at  the  chimney-pots  when 
Svengali  is  talking!  Look  a  little  lower 
down  between  the  houses,  on  the  other 
side  of  the  river!  There  is  a  little  ugly 
gray  building  there,  and  inside  are  eight 
slanting  slabs  of  brass,  all  of  a  row,  like 
beds  in  a  school  dormitory,  and  one  fine 
day  you  shall  lie  asleep  on  one  of  those 
slabs — you,  Drilpy,  who  would  not  listen 
to  Svengali,  and  therefore  lost  him!. . . . 
And  over  the  middle  of  you  will  be  a  little 
leather  apron,  and  over  your  head  a  lit- 
tle brass  tap,  and  all  day  long  and  all 
night  the  cold  water  shall  trickle,  trickle, 
trickle  all  the  way  down  your  beautiful 
white  body  to  your  beautiful  white  feet 
till  they  turn  green,  and  your  poor  damp 
draggled  muddy  rags  will  hang  above 
you  from  the  ceiling  for  your  friends  to 
know  you  by;  drip,  drip,  drip!  But  you 
will  have  no  friends.  .  .  . 


"And people  of  all  sorts,  strangers,  will 
stare  at  you  through  the  big  plate-glass 
window  —  Englanders,  chiffoniers,  paint- 
ers and  sculptors,  workmen,  piou-pious, 
old  hags  of  washer-women — and  say, '  Ah ! 
what  a  beautiful  woman  was  that!  Look 
at  her!  She  ought  to  be  rolling  in  her 
carriage  and  pair!'  And  just  then,  who 
should  come  by,  rolling  in  his  carriage 
and  pair,  smothered  in  furs,  and  smoking 
a  big  cigar  of  the  Havana,  but  Svengali, 
who  will  jump  out,  and  push  the  canaille 
aside,  and  say, '  Ha !  ha !  that  is  la  grande 
Drilpy,  who  would  not  listen  to  Svengali, 
but  looked  at  the  chimney-pots  when  he 
told  her  of  his  manly  love,  and — " 

"Hi!    d it,    Svengali,   what    the 

devil  are  you  talking  to  Trilby  about? 
You're  making  her  sick;  can't  you  see? 
Leave  off,  and  go  to  the  piano,  man,  or 
I'll  come  and  slap  you  on  the  back 
again !" 

Thus  would  that  sweating  pig-headed 
bullock  of  an  Englander  stop  Svengali's 
love-making  and  release  Trilby  from  bad 
quarters  of  an  hour. 

Then  Svengali,  who  had  a  wholesome 
dread  of  the  pig-beaded  bullock,  would 
go  to  the  piano  and  make  impossible  dis- 
cords, and  say:  "Dear  Drilpy,  come  and 
sing  '  Pen  Polt ' !  I  am  thirsting  for  those 
so  beautiful  chest  notes !     Come !" 

Poor  Trilby  needed  little  pressing 
when  she  was  asked  to  sing,  and  would 
go  through  her  lamentable  performance, 
to  the  great  discomfort  of  Little  Billee. 
It  lost  nothing  of  its  grotesqueness  from 
Svengali's  accompaniment,  which  was  a 
triumph  of  cacophony,  and  he  would 
encourage  her  "Tres  pien,  tres  pien,  9a 
y  est!" 

When  it  was  over,  Svengali  would  test 
her  ear,  as  he  called  it,  and  strike  the  C 
in  the  middle  and  then  the  F  just  above, 
and  ask  which  was  the  highest;  and  she 
would  declare  they  were  both  exactly 
the  same.  It  was  only  when  he  struck  a 
note  in  the  bass  and  another  in  the  treble 
that  she  could  perceive  any  difference, 
and  said  that  the  first  sounded  like  Pere 
Martin  blowing  up  his  wife,  and  the  sec- 
ond like  her  little  godson  trying  to  make 
the  peace  between  them. 

She  was  quite  tone-deaf,  and  didn't 
know  it;  and  he  would  pay  her  extrava- 
gant compliments  on  her  musical  talent, 
till  Taffy  would  say, 

"Look  here,  Svengali,  let's  hear  you 
sing  a  song!" 


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HARPER'S    NEW    MONTHLY    MAGAZINE. 


And  he  would  tickle  him  so  master- 
fully under  the  ribs  that  the  creature 
howled  and  became  quite  hysterical. 

Then  Svengali  would  vent  his  love  of 
teasing  on  Little  Billee,  and  pin  his  arms 
behind  his  back  and  swing  him  round, 
saying: 

"Himmel!  what's  this  for  an  arm? 
It's  like  a  girl's!" 

"It's  strong  enough  to  paint!"  said 
Little  Billee. 

"And  what's  this  for  a  leg?  It's  like 
a  mahlstick!" 

"It's  strong  enough  to  kick,  if  you 
don't  leave  off!" 


And  Little  Billee,  the  young  and  ten- 
der, would  let  out  his  little  heel  and  kick 
the  German's  shins;  and  just  as  the  Ger- 
man was  going  to  retaliate,  big  Taffy 
would  pin  his  arms  and  make  him  sing 
another  song,  more  discordant  than  Tril- 
by's— for  he  didn't  dream  of  kicking  Taf- 
fy ;    of  that  you  may  be  sure ! 

Such  was  Svengali — only  to  be  en- 
dured for  the  sake  of  his  music — always 
ready  to  vex,  frighten,  bully,  or  torment 
anybody  or  anything  smaller  and  weaker 
than  himself — from  a  woman  or  a  child 
to  a  mouse  or  a  fly. 

[to  be  continued.] 


^^ 


fcft-f*" 


IN   THE   SIERRA   MADRE   WITH   THE   PUNCHERS. 


BY   FREDERIC   REMINGTON. 


ON  a  chill  black  morning  the  cabins  of 
Los  Ojos  gave  up  their  inmates  at 
an  early  hour.  The  ponies,  mules,  and 
burros  were  herded  up,  and  stood  shiver- 
ing in  an  angle,  while  about  them  walked 
the  men,  carefully  coiling  their  hair  lar- 
iats, and  watching  for  an  opportunity  to 
jerk  them  over  the  heads  of  the  selected 
ones.  The  patron's  black  pet  walked  up 
to  him,  but  the  mounts  of  my  companion 
and  self  sneaked  about  with  an  evident 
desire  not  to  participate  in  the  present 
service.  Old  Cokomorachie  and  Jim  were 
finally  led  forth,  protesting  after  the  man- 
ner of  their  kind.  I  carefully  adjusted 
my  Whitman's  officer-tree  over  a  wealth 
of  saddle  blanketing,  and  slung  my  Win- 
chester 45-70  and  my  field-glasses  to  it. 
The  "punchers,"  both  white  and  brown, 


and  two  or  three  women,  regarded  my 
new-fangled  saddle  with  amused  glances; 
indeed,  Mr.  Bell's  Mexican  wife  laughed 
at  it  outright,  and  Tom  Bailey  called  it 

"a  d rim-fire."      Another  humorist 

thought  that  "  it  would  give  the  chickens 
the  pip  if  they  got  onto  it";  all  of  which 
I  took  good-humored! y,  since  this  was  not 
the  first  time  " your  Uncle  Samuel"  had 
been  away  from  home;  and  after  some 
days,  when  a  lot  of  men  were  carefully 
leading  sore-backed  horses  over  the  moun- 
tains, I  had  cause  to  remark  further  on 
the  subject.  A  Mexican  cow-saddle  is  a 
double-barrelled  affair;  it  will  eat  a  hole 
into  a  horse's  spine  and  a  pair  of  leather 
breeches  at  the  same  time.  If  one  could 
ask  '  *  Old  Jim  "  about  that  saddle  of  mine, 
I  think  he  would  give  it  an  autograph 


TRILBY.* 

BY  GEORGE   DU  MAURIER. 

$art  Einrti. 

ONE  lovely  Monday  morning  in  late 
September,  at  about  eleven  or  so, 
Taffy  and  the  Laird  sat  in  the  studio — 
each  opposite  his  picture,  smoking,  nurs- 
ing his  knee,  and  saying  nothing.  The 
heaviness  of  Monday  weighed  on  their 
spirits  more  than  usual,  for  the  three 
friends  had  returned  late  on  the  previous 
night  from  a  week  spent  at  Barbizon  and 
in  the  forest  of  Fontainebleau — a  heaven- 
ly week  among  the  painters  :  Rousseau, 
Millet,  Corot,  Paubigny,  let  us  suppose, 
and  others  less  known  to  fame  this  day. 
Little  Billee,  especially,  had  been  fasci- 
nated by  all  this  artistic  life  in  blouses 
and  sabots  and  immense  straw  hats  and 
panamas,  and  had  sworn  to  himself  and 
to  his  friends  that  he  would  some  day  live 


and  die  there — painting  the  forest 
as  it  is,  and  peopling  it  with  beau- 
tiful people  out  of  his  own  fancy — 
leading  a  healthy  out-door  life  of 
simple  wants  and  lofty  aspirations. 
At  length  Taffy  said:  "Bother 
work  this  morning  !  I  feel  much 
more  like  a  stroll  in  the  Luxem- 
bourg Gardens  and  lunch  at  the 
Cafe  de  l'Odeon,  where  the  omelets 
are  good  and  the  wine  isn't  blue." 

"The  very  thing  I  was  thinking 
of  myself,"  said  the  Laird. 

So  Taffy  slipped  on  his  old  velvet 
jacket  and  his  old  Harrow  cricket 
cap,  with  the  peak  turned  the  wrong 
way,  and  the  Laird  put  on  an  old  great- 
coat of  Taffy's  that  reached  to  his  heels, 
and  a  battered  straw  hat  they  had  found 
in  the  studio  when  they  took  it,  and  both 
sallied  forth  into  the  mellow  sunshine  on 
the  way  to  Carrel's.  For  they  meant  to 
seduce  Little  Billee  from  his  work,  that 
he  might  share  in  their  laziness,  greedi- 
ness, and  general  demoralization. 

And  whom  should  they  meet  coming 
down  the  narrow  turreted  old  Rue  Vieille 
des  Mauvais  Ladres  but  Little  Billee  him- 
self, with  an  air  of  general  demoralization 
so  tragic  that  they  were- quite  alarmed. 
He  had  his  paint-box  and  field -easel  in 
one  hand  and  his  little  valise  in  the  oth- 
er. He  was  pale,  his  hat  on  the  back  of 
his  head,  his  hair  staring  all  at  sixes  and 
sevens,  like  a  sick  Scotch  terrier's. 

"Good  Lord!  what's  the  matter?"  said 
Taffy. 

"Oh!  oh!  oh!  she's  sitting  at  Car- 
rel's!" 


*  Begun  in  January  number,  1894. 


568 


HARPER'S    NEW    MONTHLY    MAGAZINE. 


V* '  c  n 


LET   ME   GO,  TAFFY. 


"  Who's  sitting  at  Carrel's?" 

"Trilby!  sitting  to  all  those  ruffians! 
There  she  was,  just  as  I  opened  the  door; 
I  saw  her,  I  tell  you!  The  sight  of  her 
was  like  a  blow  between  the  eyes,  and  I 
bolted  !  I  shall  never  go  back  to  that 
beastly  hole  again  !  I'm  off  to  Barbjzon, 
to  paint  the  forest;  I  was  coming  round 
to  tell  you.     Good-by ! . .  ." 

"Stop  a  minute — are  you  mad?"  said 
Taffy,  collaring  him. 

"Let  me  go,  Taffy — let  me  go,  d it! 

I'll  come  back  in  a  week — but  I'm  going 
now!     Let  me  go;  do  you  hear?" 

"But  look  here — I'll  go  with  you." 

"No;  I  want  to  be  alone— quite  alone. 
Let  me  go,  I  tell  you !" 

"I  sha'n't  let  you  go  unless  you  swear 
to  me,  on  your  honor,  that  you'll  write 
directly  you  get  there,  and  every  day  till 
you  come  back.     Swear!" 

"All  right;  I  swear  —  honor  bright! 
Now  there  I    Good-by— good-by ;  back  on 


Sunday — good-by !"  and 
he  was  off. 

"  Now,  what  the  devil 
does  all  that  mean?" 
asked  Taffy,  much  per- 
turbed. 

"I  suppose  he's  shock- 
ed at  seeing  Trilby  in 
that  guise,  or  disguise, 
or  unguise,  sitting  at 
Carrel's  —  he's  such  an 
odd  little  chap.  And  I 
must  say,  I'm  surprised 
at  Trilby.  It's  a  bad 
thing  for  her  when  we're 
away.  What  could  have 
induced  her?  She  never 
sat  in  a  studio  of  that 
kind  before.  I  thought 
she  only  sat  to  Durien 
and  old  Carrel." 

They  walked  for  a 
while  in  silence. 

"Do  you  know,  I've 
got  a  horrid  idea  that 
the  little  fool's  in  love 
with  her!" 

"  I've  long  had  a  hor- 
rid idea  that  she's  in  love 
with  Mm." 

"  That  would  be  a 
very  stupid  business," 
said  Taffy. 

They      walked      on, 
brooding  over  those  two 
horrid    ideas,    and    the 
more   they  brooded,  considered,  and  re- 
membered, the  more  convinced  they  be- 
came that  both  were  right. 

"Here's  a  pretty  kettle  of  fish!"  said 
the  Laird—"  and  talking  of  fish,  let's  go 
and  lunch." 

And  so  demoralized  were  they  that 
Taffy  ate  three  omelets  without  thinking, 
and  the  Laird  drank  two  half-bottles  of 
wine,  and  Taffy  three,  and  they  wTalked 
about  the  whole  of  that  afternoon  for  fear 
Trilby  should  come  to  the  studio— and 
were  very  unhappy. 

This  is  how  Trilby  came  to  sit  at  Car- 
rel's studio: 

Carrel  had  suddenly  taken  it  into  his 
head  that  he  would  spend  a  week  there, 
and  paint  a  figure  among  his  pupils,  that 
they  might  see  and  paint  with — and  if 
possible  like — him.  And  he  had  asked 
Trilby  as  a  great  favor  to  be  the  model, 
and  Trilby  was  so  devoted  to  the  great 


TRILBY. 


569 


Carrel  that  she  readily  consented.  So 
that  Monday  morning  found  her  there, 
and  Carrel  posed  her  as  Ingres's  famous 
figure  in  his  picture  called  "La  Source," 
holding  a  stone  pitcher  on  her  shoulder. 

And  the  work  began  in  religious  silence. 
Then  in  five  minutes  or  so  Little  Billee 
came  bursting  in,  and  as  soon  as  he  caught 
sight  of  her  he  stopped  and  stood  as  one 
petrified,  his  shoulders  up,  his  eyes  star- 
ing. Then  lifting  his  arms,  he  turned 
and  fled. 

"Qu'est  ce  qu'il  a  done,  ce  Litrebili  ?" 
exclaimed  one  or  two  students  (for  they 
had  turned  his  English  nickname  into 
French). 

"Perhaps  he's  forgotten  something," 
said  another.  "Perhaps  he's  forgotten 
to  brush  his  teeth  and  part  his  hair !" 

"Perhaps  he's  forgotten  to  say  his 
prayers!"  said  Barizel. 

"He'll  come  back,  I  hope!"  exclaimed 
the  master. 

And  the  incident  gave  rise  to  no  fur- 
ther comment. 

But  Trilby  was  much  disquieted,  and 
fell  to  wandering  what  on  earth  was  the 
matter. 

At  first  she  wondered  in  French  : 
French  of  the  quartier  latin.  She  had 
not  seen  Little  Billee  for  a  week,  and  won- 
dered if  he  were  ill.  She  had  looked 
forward  so  much  to  his  painting  her — 
painting  her  beautifully — and  hoped  he 
would  soon  come  back,  and  lose  no  time. 

Then  she  began  to  wonder  in  English — 
nice  clean  English — of  the  studio  in  the 
Place  St.-Anatole  des  Arts — her  father's 
English — and  suddenly  a  quick  thought 
pierced  her  through  and  through,  and 
made  the  flesh  tingle  on  her  insteps  and 
the  backs  of  her  hands,  and  bathed  her 
brow  and  temples  with  sweat. 

She  had  good  eyes,  and  Little  Billee 
had  a  singularly  expressive  face. 

Could  it  possibly  be  that  he  was  shocked 
at  seeing  her  sitting  there? 

She  knew  that  he  was  peculiar  in  many 
ways.  She  remembered  that  neither  he 
nor  Taffy  nor  the  Laird  had  ever  asked 
her  to  sit  for  the  figure,  though  she  would 
have  been  only  too  delighted  to  do  so  for 
them.  She  also  remembered  how  Little 
Billee  had  always  been  silent  whenever 
she  alluded  to  her  posing  for  the  "alto- 
gether," as  she  called  it,  and  had  some- 
times looked  pained  and  always  very 
grave. 

She  went  pale  and  red,  pale  and  red 


all  over,  again  and  again,  as  the  thought 
grew  up  in  her — and  soon  the  growing 
thought  became  a  torment. 

This  new-born  feeling  of  shame  was  un- 
endurable— its  birth  a  travail  that  racked 
and  rent  every  fibre  of  her  moral  being, 
and  she  suffered  agonies  beyond  anything 
she  had  ever  felt  in  her  life. 

"What  is  the  matter  with  you,  my 
child  ?     Are  you  ill  ?"  asked  Carrel,  who, 


"qu'est  ce  qu'il  a  donc,  ce  litrebili?" 


like  every  one  else,  was  very  fond  of  her, 
and  to  whom  she  had  sat  as  a  child 
("l'Enfance  de  Psyche,"  now  in  the  Lux- 
embourg Gallery,  was  painted  from  her). 

She  shook  her  head,  and  the  work 
went  on. 

Presently  she  dropped  her  pitcher,  that 
broke  into  bits ;  and  putting  her  two  hands 
to  her  face  she  burst  into  tears  and  sobs 
— and  there,  to  the  amazement  of  every- 
body, she  stood  crying  like  a  big  baby — 
"  La  source  aux  larmes?" 

"What  is  the  matter,  my  poor  dear 
child?"  said  Carrel,  jumping  up  and  help- 
ing her  off  the  throne. 

"Oh,  I  don't  know— I  don't  know— 
I'm  ill— very  ill— let  me  go  home!" 


REPENTANCE. 


And  with  kind  solicitude  and  despatch 
they  helped  her  on  with  her  clothes,  and 
Carrel  sent  for  a  cab  and  took  her  home. 

And  on  the  way  she  dropped  her  head 
on  his  shoulder,  and  wept,  and  told  him 
all  about  it  as  well  as  she  could,  and 
Monsieur  Carrel  had  tears  in  his  eyes  too, 
and  wished  to  Heaven  lie  had  never  in- 
duced her  to  sit  for  the  figure,  either  then 
or  at  any  other  time.  And  pondering 
deeply  and  sorrowfully  on  such  terrible 
responsibility  (he  had  grown-up  daugh- 
ters of  his  own),  he  went  back  to  the  stu- 
dio; and  in  an  hour's  time  they  got  an- 
other model  and  another  pitcher,  and 
went  to  work  again. 

And  Trilby,  as  she  lay  disconsolate  on 
her  bed  all  that  day  and  all  the  next,  and 
all  the  next  again,  thought  of  her  past 
life  with  agonies  of  shame  and  remorse 
that  made  the  pain  in  her  eyes  seem  as  a 
light  and  welcome  relief.  For  it  came, 
and  tortured  worse  and  lasted  longer  than 
it  had  ever  done  before.  But  she  soon 
found,  to  her  miserable  bewilderment, 
that  mind-aches  are  the  worst  of  all. 

Then  she  decided  that  she  must  write 
to  one  of  the  trois  Angliches,  and  chose 
the  Laird. 

She  was  more  familiar  with  him  than 
with  the  other  two:  it  was  impossible  not 
to  be  familiar  with  the  Laird  if  he  liked 


one,  as  he  was  so  easy-going  and  demon- 
strative, for  all  that  he  wras  such  a  canny 
Scot!  Then  she  had  nursed  him  through 
his  illness;  she  had  often  hugged  and 
kissed  him  before  the  whole  studio  full  of 
people — and  even  when  alone  with  him 
it  had  always  seemed  quite  natural  for 
her  to  do  so.  It  was  like  a  child  caress- 
ing a  favorite  young  uncle  or  elder  bro- 
ther. And  though  the  good  Laird  was 
the  least  susceptible  of  mortals,  he  would 
often  find  these  innocent  blandishments 
a  somewhat  trying  ordeal !  She  had  nev- 
er taken  such  a  liberty  with  Taffy;  and 
as  for  Little  Billee,  she  would  sooner  have 
died! 

So  she  wrote  to  the  Laird.  I  give  her 
letter  without  the  spelling,  which  was 
often  faulty,  although  her  nightly  read- 
ings had  much  improved  it: 

"My  dear  Friend,— I  am  very  un- 
happy. I  was  sitting  at  Carrel's,  in  the 
Rue  des  Potirons,  and  Little  Billee  came 
in,  and  was  so  shocked  and  disgusted  that 
he  ran  away  and  never  came  back. 

"I  saw  it  all  in  his  face. 

"I  sat  there  because  M.  Carrel  asked 
me  to.  He  has  always  been  very  kind 
to  me — M.  Carrel — ever  since  I  was  a 
child;  and  I  would  do  anything  to  please 
him,  but  never  that  again. 

44  He  was  there  too. 


TRILBY. 


571 


UI  never  thought  anything"  about  sit- 
ting before.  I  sat  first  as  a  child  to  M. 
Carrel.  Mamma  made  me,  and  made  me 
promise  not  to  tell  papa,  and  so  I  didn't. 
It  soon  seemed  as  natural  to  sit  for  people 
as  to  run  errands  for  them,  or  wash  and 
mend  their  clothes.  Papa  wouldn't  have 
liked  my  doing  that  either,  though  we 
wanted  the  money  badly.  And  so  he 
never  knew. 

"I  have  sat  for  the  altogether  to  several 
other  people  besides — M.  Gerome,  Durien, 
the  two  Hennequins,  and  Emile  Baratier; 
and  for  the  head  and  hands  to  lots  of 
people,  and  for  the  feet  only  to  Charles 
Faure,  Andre  Besson,  Mathieu  Dumoulin, 
and  Collinet.     Nobody  else. 

"  It  seemed  as  natural  for  me  to  sit  as 
for  a  man.     Now  I  see  the  awful  differ- 


ence. 

"And  I  have  done  dreadful  things 
besides,  as  you  must  know  —  as  all  the 
quartier  knows.  Baratier  and  Besson; 
but  not  Durien,  though  people  think  so. 
Nobody  else,  I  swear  — 
except  old  Monsieur 
Pen  que  at  the  begin- 
ning, who  was  mam- 
ma's friend. 

"It  makes  me  almost 
die  of  shame  and  misery 
to  think  of  it;  for  that's 
not  like  sitting.  I  knew 
how  wrong  it  was  all 
along  —  and  there's  no 
excuse  for  me,  none. 
Though  lots  of  people 
do  as  bad,  and  nobody 
in  the  quartier  seems  to 
think  any  the  worse  of 
them. 

"If  you  and  Taffy  and 
Little  Billee  cut  me,  I 
really  think  I  shall  go 
mad  and  die.  With- 
out your  friendship  I 
shouldn't  care  to  live  a 
bit.  Dear  Sandy,  I  love 
your  little  finger  better 
than  any  man  or  woman 
I  ever  met;  and  Taffy's 
and  Little  Billee's  little 
fingers  too. 

"What  shall  I  do?  I 
daren't  go  out  for  fear 
of  meeting  one  of  you. 
Will  you  come  and  see 
me? 

"  I  am  never  going  to 

Vol.  LXXXVIII.— No.  526.-54 


sit  again,  not  even  for  the  face  and  hands. 
I  am  going  back  to  be  a  blanchisseuse  de 
fin  with  my  old  friend  Angele  Boisse, 
who  is  getting  on  very  well  indeed,  in 
the  Rue  des  Cloitres  Ste.-Petronille. 

"  You  will  come  and  see  me,  won't  you? 
I  shall  be  in  all  day  till  you  do.  Or  else 
I  will  meet  you  somewhere,  if  you  will 
tell  me  where  and  when;  or  else  I  will 
go  and  see  you  in  the  studio,  if  you  are 
sure  to  be  alone.  Please  don't  keep  me 
waiting  long  for  an  answer. 

"You  don't  know  what  I'm  suffering. 

"Your  ever  loving  faithful  friend, 

"Trilby  O'Ferrall." 

She  sent  this  letter  by  hand,  and  the 
Laird  came  in  less  than  ten  minutes  after 
she  had  sent  it ;  and  she  hugged  and  kissed 
and  cried  over  him  so  that  he  was  almost 
ready  to  cry  himself;  but  he  burst  out 
laughing  instead — which  was  better  and 
more  in  his  line,  and  very  much  more 
comforting — and  talked  to  her  so  nicely 


lH 

/SrfPVfh  ^u^^k  ^%W/ 


CONFESSION. 


572 


HARPER'S    NEW    MONTHLY   MAGAZINE. 


and  kindly  and  naturally  that  by  the 
time  he  left  her  humble  attic  in  the  Rue 
des  Pousse-Cailloux  her  very  aspect,  which 
had  quite  shocked  him  when  he  first  saw 
her,  had  almost  become  what  it  usually 
was. 

The  little  room  under  the  leads,  with 
its  sloping  roof  and  mansard  window,  was 
as  scrupulously  neat  and  clean  as  if  its 
tenant  had  been  a  holy  sister  who  taught 
the  noble  daughters  of  France  at  some 
Convent  of  the  Sacred  Heart.  There 
were  nasturtiums  and  mignonette  on  the 
outer  window-sill,  and  convolvulus  was 
trained  to  climb  round  the  window. 

As  she  sat  by  his  side  on  the  narrow 
white  bed, clasping  and  strokinghis  painty 
turpentiny  hand  and  kissing  it  every  five 
minutes,  he  talked  to  her  like  a  father — 
as  he  told  Taffy  afterwards— and  scolded 
her  for  having  been  so  silly  as  not  to  send 
for  him  directly,  or  come  to  the  studio. 
He  said  how  glad  he  was,  how  glad  they 
would  all  be,  that  she  was  going  to  give 
up  sitting  for  the  figure — not,  of  course, 
that  there  was  any  real  harm  in  it,  but  it 
was  better  not— and  especially  how  happy 
it  would  make  them  to  feel  she  intended 
to  live  straight  for  the  future.  Little 
Billee  was  to  remain  at  Barbizon  for  a 
little  while;  but  she  must  promise  to  come 
and  dine  with  Taffy  and  himself  that  very 
day,  and  cook  the  dinner;  and  when  he 
went  back  to  his  picture,  "  Les  Noces  du 
Toreador" — saying  to  her  as  he  left,  "a 
ce  soir  done,  mille  sacres  tonnerres  de 
nong  de  Dew !" — he  left  the  happiest  wo- 
man in  the  whole  Latin  quarter  behind 
him :  she  had  confessed  and  been  forgiven. 

And  with  shame  and  repentance  and 
confession  and  forgiveness  had  come  a 
strange  new  feeling,  that  of  a  dawning 
self-respect. 

Hitherto,  for  Trilby,  self-respect  had 
meant  little  more  than  the  mere  clean- 
liness of  her  body,  in  which  she  had  al- 
ways revelled;  alas!  it  was  one  of  the 
conditions  of  her  humble  calling.  It  now 
meant  another  kind  of  cleanliness,  and 
she  would  luxuriate  in  it  for  evermore; 
and  the  dreadful  past — never  to  be  forgot- 
ten by  her — should  be  so  lived  down  as  in 
time,  perhaps,  to  be  forgotten  by  others. 

The  dinner  that  evening  was  a  memo- 
rable one  for  Trilby.  After  she  had  wash- 
ed up  the  knives  and  forks  and  plates 
and  dishes,  and  put  them  by,  she  sat  and 
sewed.  She  wouldn't  even  smoke  her  cig- 
arette, it  reminded  her  so  of  things  and 


scenes  she  now  hated.    No  more  cigarettes 
for  Trilby  O'Ferrall. 

They  all  talked  of  Little  Billee.  She 
heard  about  the  way  he  had  been  brought 
up,  about  his  mother  and  sister,  the  peo- 
ple he  had  always  lived  among.  She 
also  heard  (and  her  heart  alternately  rose 
and  sank  as  she  listened)  what  his  future 
was  likely  to  be,  and  how  rare  his  genius 
was,  and  how  great — if  his  friends  were 
to  be  trusted.  Fame  and  fortune  would 
soon  be  his— such  fame  and  fortune  as 
fell  to  the  lot  of  very  few — unless  any- 
thing should  happen  to  spoil  his  promise 
and  mar  his  prospects  in  life,  and  ruin 
a  splendid  career;  and  the  rising  of  the 
heart  was  all  for  him,  the  sinking  for 
herself.  How  could  she  ever  hope  to  be 
even  the  friend  of  such  a  man?  Might 
she  ever  hope  to  be  his  servant — his  faith- 
ful humble  servant? 

Little  Billee  spent  a  month  at  Barbizon, 
and  when  he  came  back  it  was  with  such 
a  brown  face  that  his  friends  hardly  knew 
him;  and  he  brought  with  him  such  stud- 
ies as  made  his  friends  "sit  up." 

The  crushing  sense  of  their  own  hope- 
less inferiority  was  lost  in  wonder  at  his 
work,  in  love  and  enthusiasm  for  the 
workman. 

Their  Little  Billee,  so  young  and  ten- 
der, so  weak  of  body,  so  strong  of  pur- 
pose, so  warm  of  heart,  so  light  of  hand, 
so  keen  and  quick  and  piercing  of  brain 
and  eye,  was  their  master,  to  be  stuck  on 
a  pedestal  and  looked  up  to  and  bowed 
down  to,  to  be  watched  and  warded  and 
worshipped  for  evermore. 

When  Trilby  came  in  from  her  work 
at  six,  and  he  shook  hands  with  her  and 
said  "  Hullo,  Trilby!"  her  face  went  pale 
to  the  lips,  her  under  lip  quivered,  and 
she  gazed  down  at  him  (for  she  was  among 
the  tallest  of  her  sex)  with  such  a  moist, 
hungry,  wide-eyed  look  of  humble  crav- 
ing adoration  that  the  Laird  felt  his  worst 
fears  were  realized,  and  the  look  Little 
Billee  sent  up  in  return  filled  the  manly 
bosom  of  Taffy  with  an  equal  apprehen- 
sion. 

Then  they  all  three  went  and  dined 
together  at  le  pere  Trin's,  and  Trilby 
went  back  to  her  blanchisserie  de  fin. 

Next  day  Little  Billee  took  his  work  to 
show  Carrel,  and  Carrel  invited  him  to 
come  and  finish  his  picture  "  The  Pitcher 
goes  to  the  Well "  at  his  own  private  stu- 
dio— an  unheard-of  favor,  which  the  boy 


TRILBY. 


573 


accepted  with  a  thrill  of  proud  gratitude 
and  affectionate  reverence. 

So  little  was  seen  for  some  time  of  Lit- 
tle Billee  at  the  studio  in  the  Place  St.- 
Anatole  des  Arts,  and  little  of  Trilby; 
a  blanchisseuse  de  jin  has  not  many  min- 
utes to  spare  from  her  irons.  But  they 
often  met  at  dinner.  And  on  Sunday 
mornings  Trilby  came  to  repair  the 
Laird's  linen  and  darn  his  socks  and 
look  after  his  little  comforts,  as  usual, 
and  spend  a  happy  day.  And  on  Sunday 
afternoons  the  studio  would  be  as  lively 
as  ever,  with  the  fencing  and  boxing,  the 
piano- playing  and  fiddling — all  as  it  used 
to  be. 

And  week  by  week  the  friends  noticed 
a  gradual  and  subtle  change  in  Trilby. 
She  was  no  longer  slangy  in  French,  un- 
less it  were  now  and  then  by  a  slip  of  the 
tongue,  no  longer  so  facetious  and  droll, 
and  yet  she  seemed  even  happier  than  she 
had  ever  seemed  before. 

Also,  she  grew  thinner,  especially  in  the 
face,  where  the  bones  of  her  cheeks  and 
jaw  began  to  show  themselves,  and  these 
bones  were  constructed  on  such  right 
principles  (as  were  those  of  her  brow  and 
chin  and  the  bridge  of  her  nose)  that  the 
improvement  was  astonishing,  almost  in- 
explicable. 

Also,  she  lost  her  freckles  as  the  sum- 
mer waned  and  she  herself  went  less  into 
the  open  air.  And  she  let  her  hair  grow, 
and  made  of  it  a  small  knot  at  the  back 
of  her  head,  and  showed  her  little  flat 
ears,  which  were  charming,  and  just  in 
the  right  place,  very  far  back  and  rather 
high;  Little  Billee  could  not  have  placed 
them  better  himself.  Also,  her  mouth, 
always  too  large,  took  on  a  firmer  and 
sweeter  outline,  and  her  big  British  teeth 
were  so  white  and  even  that  even  French- 
men forgave  them  their  British  bigness. 
And  a  new  soft  brightness  came  into  her 
eyes  that  no  one  had  ever  seen  there  be- 
fore. They  were  stars,  just  twin  gray 
stars — or  rather  planets  just  thrown  off 
by  sOme  new  sun,  for  the  steady  mellow 
light  they  gave  out  was  not  entirely  their 
own. 

Favorite  types  of  beauty  change  with 
each  succeeding  generation.  These  were 
the  days  of  Buckner's  aristocratic  Album 
beauties,  with  lofty  foreheads,  oval  faces, 
little  aquiline  noses,  heart-shaped  little 
mouths,  soft  dimpled  chins,  drooping 
shoulders,  and  long  side  ringlets  that 
fell  over  them — the  Lady  Arabellas  and 


"twin  gray  stars." 


the  Lady  Clementinas,  Musidoras  and 
Medoras !  A  type  that  will  perhaps  come 
back  to  us  some  day. 

May  the  present  scribe  be  dead ! 

Trilby's  type  would  be  infinitely  more 
admired  now  than  in  the  fifties.  Her 
photograph  would  be  in  the  shop  win- 
dows. Mr.  Burne-Jones — if  I  may  make 
so  bold  as  to  say  so — would  perhaps  have 
marked  her  for  his  own,  in  spite  of  her 
almost  too  exuberant  joyousness  and  ir- 
repressible vitality.  Rossetti  might  have 
evolved  another  new  formula  from  her; 
Sir  John  Millais  another  old  one  of  the 
kind  that  is  always  new  and  never  sates 
nor  palls — like  CI y tie,  let  us  say — ever 
old  and  ever  new  as  love  itself! 

Trilby's  type  was  especially  in  singu- 
lar contrast  to  the  type  Gavarni  had 
made  so  popular  in  the  Latin  quarter  at 
the  period  we  are  writing  of,  so  that  those 
who  fell  so  readily  under  her  charm  were 
rather  apt  to  wonder  why.  Moreover, 
she  was  thought  much  too  tall  for  her 
sex,  and  her  day,  and  her  station  in  life, 
and  especially  for  the  country  she  lived 
in.  She  hardly  looked  up  to  a  bold  gen- 
darme !  and  a  bold  gendarme  was  nearly 
as  tall  as  a  "dragon  de  la  garde,"  who 
was  nearly  as  tall  as  an  average  English 
policeman.  Not  that  she  was  a  giantess, 
by  any  means.  She  was  about  as  tall  as 
Miss  Ellen  Terry — and  that  is  a  charm- 
ing height,  /think. 

One  day  Taffy  remarked  to  the  Laird: 
"Hang  it!  I'm  blest  if  Trilby  isn't  the 
handsomest  woman  I  know !  She  looks 
like  a  grande  dame  masquerading  as  a 
grisette  —  almost   like  a  joyful   saint  at 


574 


HARPER'S    NEW    MONTHLY   MAGAZINE. 


times.  She's  lovely !  By  Jove !  I  couldn't 
stand  her  hugging  me  as  she  does  you! 
There'd  be  a  tragedy — say  the  killing  of 
Little  Billee." 

"Ah!  Taffy,  my  hoy,"  rejoined  the 
Laird,  "when  those  long  sisterly  arms 
are  round  my  neck  it  isn't  me  she's  hug- 
ging." 

"And  then,"  said  Taffy,  "what  a  trump 
she  is!  Why,  she's  as  upright  and 
straight  and  honorable  as  a  man!  And 
what  she  says  to  one  about  one's  self  is 
always  so  pleasant  to  hear!  That's  Irish, 
I  suppose.  And,  what's  more,  it's  al- 
ways true." 

"Ah,  that's  Scotch!"  said  the  Laird, 
and  tried  to  wink  at  Little  Billee,  but 
Little  Billee  wasn't  there. 

Even  Svengali  perceived  this  strange 
metamorphosis.  "  Ach,  Drilpy,"  he 
would  say,  on  a  Sunday  afternoon,  "  how 
beautiful  you  are!  It  drives  me  mad  !  I 
adore  you.  I  like  you  thinner;  you  have 
such  beautiful  bones!  Why  do  you  not 
answer  my  letters?  What!  you  do  not 
read  them?  You  burn  them?  And  yet  I — 
Don ner wetter!  I  forgot!  The  grisettes 
of  the  quartier  latin  have  not  learned 
how  to  read  or  write;  they  have  only 
learnt  how  to  dance  the  cancan  with  the 
dirty  little  pig-dog  monkeys  they  call 
men.  Sacrement!  We  will  teach  the 
little  pig-dog  monkeys  to  dance  some- 
thing else  some  day,  we  Germans.  We 
will  make  music  for  them  to  dance  to! 
Bourn !  boum !  Better  than  the  waiter  at 
the  Cafe  de  la  Rotonde,  hein?  And  the 
grisettes  of  the  quartier  latin  shall  pour 
us  out  your  little  white  wine — '  fotre 
betit  fin  plane,'  as  your  pig-dog  monkey 
of  a  poet  says,  your  rotten  verfluchter  De 
Musset,  'who  has  got  such  a  splendid 
future  behind  him' !  Bah !  What  do 
you  know  of  Monsieur  Alfred  de  Musset? 
We  have  got  a  poet  too,  my  Drilpy.  His 
name  is  Heinrich  Heine.  If  he's  still 
alive,  he  lives  in  Paris,  in  a  little  street  off 
the  Champs  Elysees.  He  lies  in  bed  all 
day  long,  and  only  sees  out  of  one  eye,  like 
the  Countess  Varnhagen,  ha!  ha!  He 
adores  French  grisettes.  He  married  one. 
Her  name  is  Mathilde,  and  she  has  got 
siissen  fussen,  like  you.  He  would  adore 
you  too,  for  your  beautiful  bones;  he 
would  like  to  count  them  one  by  one,for  he 
is  very  playful,  like  me.  And,  ach !  what 
a  beautiful  skeleton  you  will  make !  And 
very  soon,  too,  because  you  do  not  smile 
on  your  madly  loving  Svengali.     You 


burn  his  letters  without  reading  them! 
You  shall  have  a  nice  little  mahogany 
glass  case  all  to  yourself  in  the  museum 
of  the  Ecole  de  Medecine,  and  Svengali 
shall  come  in  his  new  fur-lined  coat, 
smoking  his  big  cigar  of  the  Havana,  and 
push  the  dirty  carabins  out  of  the  way, 
and  look  through  the  holes  of  your  eyes 
into  your  stupid  empty  skull,  and  up  the 
nostrils  of  your  high  bony  sounding- 
board  of  a  nose  without  either  a  tip  or  a 
lip  to  it,  and  into  the  roof  of  your  big* 
mouth,  with  your  thirty-two  big  English 
teeth,  and  between  your  big  ribs  into  your 
big  chest,  where  the  big  leather  lungs 
used  to  be,  and  say,  'Ach!  what  a  pity 
she  had  no  more  music  in  her  than  a  big 
tomcat !'  And  then  he  will  look  all  down 
your  bones  to  your  poor  crumbling  feet, 
and  say,  'Ach!  what  a  fool  she  was  not 
to  answer  Svengali's  letters!'  and  the 
dirty  carabins  shall — " 

"Shut  up,  you  sacred  fool,  or  I'll  pre- 
cious soon  spoil  your  skeleton  for  you." 

Thus  the  short-tempered  Taffy,  who 
had  been  listening. 

Then  Svengali,  scowling,  would  play 
Chopin's  funeral  march  more  divinely 
than  ever;  and  where  the  pretty  soft 
part  comes  in,  he  would  whisper  to 
Trilby,  "That  is  Svengali  coming  to 
look  at  you  in  your  little  mahogany 
glass  case!" 

And  here  let  me  say  that  these  vicious 
imaginations  of  Svengali's,  which  look  so 
tame  in  English  print,  sounded  much 
more  ghastly  in  French,  pronounced  with 
a  Hebrew-German  accent,  and  uttered  in 
his  hoarse,  rasping,  nasal,  throaty  rook's 
caw,  his  big  yellow  teeth  baring  them- 
selves in  a  mongrel  canine  snarl,  his 
heavy  upper  eyelids  drooping  over  his 
insolent  black  eyes. 

Besides  which,  as  he  played  the  lovely 
melody  he  would  go  through  a  ghoulish 
pantomime,  as  though  he  were  taking 
stock  of  the  different  bones  in  her  skele- 
ton with  greedy  but  discriminating  ap- 
proval. And  when  he  came  down  to  the 
feet,  he  was  almost  droll  in  the  intensity 
of  his  terrible  realism.  But  Trilby  did 
not  appreciate  this  exquisite  fooling,  and 
felt  cold  all  over. 

He  seemed  to  her  a  dread  powerful  de- 
mon, who,  but  for  Taffy  (who  alone  could 
hold  him  in  check),  oppressed  and  weighed 
on  her  like  an  incubus — and  she  dreamt 
of  him  oftener  than  she  dreamt  of  Taffy, 
the  Laird,  or  even  Little  Billee! 


576 


HARPER'S    NEW   MONTHLY    MAGAZINE. 


Thus  pleasantly  and  smoothly,  and 
without  much  change  or  ad  venture, things 
went  on  till  Christmas-time. 

Little  Billee  seldom  spoke  of  Trilby,  or 
Trilby  of  him.  Work  went  on  every 
morning  at  the  studio  in  the  Place  St.- 
Anatole  des  Arts,  and  pictures  were  be- 
gun and  finished  —  little  pictures  that 
didn't  take  long  to  paint  —  the  Laird's 
Spanish  bull- fighting  scenes,  in  which 
the  bull  never  appeared,  and  which  he 
sent  to  his  native  Dundee  and  sold  there; 
Taffy's  tragic  little  dramas  of  life  in  the 
slums  of  Paris — starvings,  drownings — su- 
icides by  charcoal  and  poison — which  he 
sent  everywhere,  but  did  not  sell. 

Little  Billee  was  painting  all  this  time 
at  Carrel's  studio — his  private  one— and 
seemed  preoccupied  and  happy  when  they 
all  met  at  meal-time,  and  less  talkative 
even  than  usual. 

He  had  always  been  the  least  talkative 
of  the  three ;  more  prone  to  listen,  and  no 
doubt  to  think  the  more. 

In  the  afternoon  people  came  and  went 
as  usual,  and  boxed  and  fenced  and  did 
gymnastic  feats,  and  felt  Taffy's  biceps, 
which  by  this  time  equalled  Mr. Sandow's! 

Some  of  these  people  were  very  pleasant 
and  remarkable,  and  have  become  famous 
since  then  in  England,  France,  America — 
or  have  died,  or  married,  and  come  to 
grief  or  glory  in  other  ways.  It  is  the 
Ballad  of  the  Bouillabaisse  all  over  again  ! 

It  might  be  worth  while  my  trying  to 
sketch  some  of  the  more  noteworthy,  now 
that  my  story  is  slowing  for  a  while — 
like  a  French  train  when  the  engine-driver 
sees  a  long  curved  tunnel  in  front  of  him, 
as  I  do— and  no  light  at  the  other  end ! 


My  humble  attempts  at  characterization 
might  be  useful  as  "  memoires  pour  ser- 
vir  "  to  future  biographers.  Besides,  there 
are  other  reasons,  as  the  reader  will  soon 
discover. 

There  was  Durien,  for  instance — Tril- 
by's especial  French  adorer,  "  pour  le  bon 
motif!"  a  son  of  the  people,  a  splendid 
sculptor,  a  very  fine  character  in  every 
way — so  perfect,  indeed,  that  there  is  less 
to  say  about  him  than  any  of  the  others 
— modest,  earnest,  simple,  frugal,  chaste, 
and  of  untiring  industry,  living  for  his 
art,  and  perhaps  also  a  little  for  Trilby, 
whom  he  would  have  been  only  too  glad 
to  marry.  He  was  Pygmalion;  she  was 
his  Galatea  —  a  Galatea  whose  marble 
heart  would  never  beat  for  him  ! 

Durien's  house  is  now  the  finest  in  the 
Pare  Monceau ;  his  wife  and  daughters 
are  the  best-dressed  women  in  Paris,  and 
he  one  of  the  happiest  of  men ;  but  he 
w7ill  never  quite  forget  poor  Galatea: 

"La  belle  aux  pieds  d'albatre  —  aux 
deux  talons  de  rose !" 

Then  there  was  Vincent,  a  Yankee 
medical  student,  who  could  both  work 
and  play. 

He  is  now  one  of  the  greatest  oculists 
in  the  world,  and  Europeans  cross  the 
Atlantic  to  consult  him.  He  can  still 
play,  and  when  he  crosses  the  Atlantic 
himself  for  that  purpose  he  has  to  travel 
incognito  like  a  royalty,  lest  his  play 
should  be  marred  by  work.  And  his 
daughters  are  so  beautiful  and  accom- 
plished that  British  dukes  have  sighed 
after  them  in  vain.  Indeed,  these  fair 
young  ladies  spend  their  autumn  holi- 
day in  refusing  the  British  aristocracy. 
We  are  told  so  in  the  society  papers,  and 
I  can  quite  believe  it.  Love  is  not  al- 
ways blind;  and  if  he  is,  Vincent  is  the 
man  to  cure  him. 

In  those  days  he  prescribed  for  us  all 
round,  and  punched  and  stethoscoped  us, 
and  looked  at  our  tongues  for  love,  and 
told  us  what  to  eat,  drink,  and  avoid, 
and  even  where  to  go  for  it. 

For  instance:  late  one  night  Little  Bil- 
lee woke  up  in  a  cold  sweat,  and  thought 
himself  a  dying  man — he  had  felt  seedy 
all  day  and  taken  no  food — so  he  dressed 
and  dragged  himself  to  Vincent's  hotel, 
and  woke  him  up,  and  said,  "  Oh,  Vin- 
cent, Vincent!  I'm  a  dying  man!"  and 
all  but  fainted  on  his  bed.  Vincent  felt 
him  all  over  with  the  greatest  care,  and 


TRILBY. 


577 


asked  him  many  questions.  Then,  look- 
ing at  his  watch,  he  delivered  himself 
thus:  "Humph!  3.30!  rather  late— but 
still— look  here,  Little  Billee— do  you 
know  the  Halle,  on  the  other  side  of  the 
water,  where  they  sell  vegetables  ?" 

"Oh,  yes !  yes !  What  vegetable  shall 
I—" 

"Listen!  On  the  north  side  are  two 
restaurants,  Bordier  and  Baratte.  They 
remain  open  all  night.  Now  go  straight 
off  to  one  of  those  tuck  shops,  and  tuck 
in  as  big  a  supper  as  you  possibly  can. 
Some  people  prefer  Baratte.  I  prefer 
Bordier  myself.  Perhaps  you'd  better 
try  Bordier  first  and  Baratte  after.  At 
all  events,  lose  no  time;  so  off  you  go!" 

Thus  he  saved  Little  Billee  from  an 
early  grave. 

Then  there  was  the  Greek,  a  boy  of 
only  sixteen,  but  six  feet  high,  and  look- 
ing ten  years  older  than  he  was,  and  able 
to  smoke  even  stronger  tobacco  than  Taffy 
himself,  and  color  pipes  divinely;  he  was 
a  great  favorite  in  the  Place  St.-Anatole, 
for  his  bonhomie,  his  niceness,  his  warm 
geniality.  He  was  the  capitalist  of  this 
select  circle  (and  nobly  lavish  of  his  cap- 
ital). He  went  by  the  name  of  Polu- 
phloisboiospaleapologos  Petrilopetrolico- 
conose — for  so  he  was  christened  by  the 
Laird — because  his  real  name  was  thought 
much  too  long  and  much  too  lovely  for 
the  quartier  latin,  and  reminded  one  of 
the  Isles  of  Greece — where  burning  Sap- 
pho loved  and  sang. 

What  was  he  learning  in  the  Latin 
quarter?  French?  He  spoke  French 
like  a  native!  Nobody  knows.  But 
when  his  Paris  friends  transferred  their 
bohemia  to  London,  where  were  they 
ever  made  happier  and  more  at  home 
than  in  his  lordly  parental  abode— or  fed 
with  nicer  things? 

That  abode  is  now  his,  and  lordlier 
than  ever,  as  becomes  the  dwelling  of  a 
millionaire  and  city  magnate;  and  its 
gray-bearded  owner  is  as  genial,  as  jolly, 
and  as  hospitable  as  in  the  old  Paris  days, 
but  he  no  longer  colors  pipes. 

Then  there  was  Carnegie,  fresh  from 
Balliol,  redolent  of  the  'varsity.  He  in- 
tended himself  then  for  the  diplomatic 
service,  and  came  to  Paris  to  learn  French 
as  it  is  spoke;  and  spent  most  of  his  time 
with  his  fashionable  English  friends  on 
the  right  side  of  the  river,  and  the  rest 


with  Taffy,  the  Laird,  and  Little  Billee  on 
the  left.  Perhaps  that  is  why  he  has  not 
become  an  ambassador.  He  is  now  only 
a  rural  dean,  and  speaks  the  worst  French 
I  know,  and  speaks  it  wherever  and  when- 
ever he  can. 

It  serves  him  right,  I  think. 

He  was  fond  of  lords,  and  knew  some 
(at  least  he  gave  one  that  impression), 
and  often  talked  of  them,  and  dressed  so 
beautifully  that  even  Little  Billee  was 
abashed  in  his  presence.  Only  Taffy  in 
his  threadbare  out-at-elbow  velvet  jacket 
and  cricket  cap,  and  the  Laird  in  his  tat- 
tered straw  hat  and  Taffy's  old  overcoat 
down  to  his  heels,  dared  to  walk  arm  in 
arm  with  him — nay,  insisted  on  doing  so 
— as  they  listened  to  the  band  in  the  Lux- 
embourg Gardens. 

And  his  whiskers  were  even  longer 
and  thicker  and  more  golden  than  Taffy's 
own.  But  the  mere  sight  of  a  boxing- 
glove  made  him  sick. 

Then  there  was  Joe  Sibley,  the  idle  ap- 
prentice, the  king  of  bohemia,  le  roi  des 
truands,  to  whom  everything  was  for- 
given, as  to  Frangois  Villon,  ;'a  cause  de 
ses  gentillesses." 

Always  in  debt,  like  Svengali;  like 
Svengali,  vain,  witty,  and  a  most  exqui- 
site and  original  artist;  and  also  eccen- 
tric in  his  attire  (though  clean),  so  that 
people  would  stare  at  him  as  he  walked 
along — which  he  adored!  But  (unlike 
Svengali)  he  was  genial,  caressing,  sym- 
pathetic, charming;  the  most  irresisti- 
ble friend  in  the  world  as  long  as  his 
friendship  lasted — but  that  was  not  for- 
ever! 

The  moment  his  friendship  left  off,  his 
enmity  began  at  once.  Sometimes  this 
enmity  would  take  the  simple  and 
straightforward  form  of  trying  to  punch 
his  ex-friend's  head;  and  when  the  ex- 
friend  was  too  big,  he  would  get  some 
new  friend  to  help  him.  And  much  bad 
blood  would  be  caused  in  this  way — 
though  very  little  was  spilt.  And  all 
this  bad  blood  was  not  made  better  by 
the  funny  things  he  went  on  saying 
through  life  about  the  unlucky  one  who 
had  managed  to  offend  him — things  that 
stuck  forever!  His  bark  was  worse  than 
his  bite — he  was  better  with  his  tongue 
than  with  his  fists — a  dangerous  joker! 
But  when  he  met  another  joker  face  to 
face,  even  an  inferior  joker — with  a 
rougher  wit,  a   coarser  thrust,  a  louder 


578 


HARPER'S    NEW    MONTHLY    MAGAZINE. 


laugh,  a  tougher  hide—he  would  just  col- 
lapse, like  a  pricked  bladder! 

He  is  now  perched  on  such  a  topping 
pinnacle  (of  fame  and  notoriety  com- 
bined) that  people  can  stare  at  him  from 
two  hemispheres  at  once;  and  so  famous 
as  a  wit  that  when  he  jokes  (and  he  is 
always  joking)  people  laugh  first,  and 
then  ask  what  it  was  he  was  joking  about. 
And  you  can  even  make  your  own  mild 
funniments  raise  a  roar  by  merely  pref- 
acing them,  "As  Joe  Sibley  once  said." 

The  present  scribe  has  often  done  so. 

And  if  by  any  chance  you  should  one 
day,  by  a  happy  fluke,  hit  upon  a  really 
good  thing  of  your  own — good  enough 
to  be  quoted — be  sure  it  will  come  back 
to  you  after  many  days  prefaced,  "As 
Joe  Sibley  once  said." 

Then  there  was  Lorrimer,  the  industri- 
ous apprentice,  who  is  now  also  well  pin- 
nacled on  high;  himself  a  pillar  of  the 
Royal  Academy — probably,  if  he  lives 
long  enough,  its  future  president — the 
duly  knighted  or  baroneted  Lord  Mayor 
of  "all  the  plastic  arts"  (except  one  or 
two  perhaps,  here  and  there,  that  are  not 
altogether  without  some  importance). 

May  this  not  be  for  many,  many  years ! 
Lorrimer  himself  would  be  the  first  to 
say  so! 

Tall,  thin,  red-haired,  and  well-favored, 
he  was  a  most  eager,  earnest,  and  pains- 
taking young  enthusiast,  of  precocious 
culture,  who  read  improving  books,  and 
did  not  share  in  the  amusements  of  the 
quartier  latin,  but  spent  his  evenings  at 
home  with  Handel,  Michael  Angelo,  and 
Dante,  on  the  respectable  side  of  the  riv- 
er. Also,  he  went  into  good  society 
sometimes,  with  a  dress-coat  on,  and  a 
white  tie,  and  his  hair  parted  in  the  mid- 
dle! 

But  in  spite  of  these  blemishes  on  his 
otherwise  exemplary  record  as  an  art  stu- 
dent, he  was  the  most  delightful  compan- 
ion— the  most  affectionate,  helpful,  and 
sympathetic  of  friends.  May  he  live 
long  and  prosper! 

Enthusiast  as  he  was,  he  could  only 
worship  one  god  at  a  time.  It  was  either 
Michael  Angelo,  Phidias,  Paul  Veronese, 
Tintoret,  Raphael,  or  Titian— never  a 
modern — moderns  didn't  exist!  And  so 
thoroughgoing  was  he  in  his  worship, 
and  so  persistent  in  voicing  it,  that  he 
made  those  immortals  quite  unpopular 
in  the  Place  St.-Anatole  des  Arts.     We 


grew  to  dread  their  very  names.  Each 
of  them  would  last  him  a  couple  of 
months  or  so;  then  he  would  give  us  a 
month's  holiday,  and  take  up  another. 

Joe  Sibley,  equally  enthusiastic,  was 
more  faithful.  He  was  a  monotheist, 
and  had  but  one  god,  and  was  less  tire- 
some in  the  expression  of  his  worship. 
He  is  so  still — and  his  god  is  still  the 
same— no  stodgy  old  master  this  divinity, 
but  a  modern  of  the  moderns !  For  forty 
years  the  cosmopolite  Joe  has  been  sing- 
ing his  one  god's  praise  in  every  tongue 
he  knows  and  every  country — and  also 
his  contempt  for  all  rivals  to  this  god- 
head— whether  quite  sincerely  or  not, 
who  can  say?  Men's  motives  are  so 
mixed !  But  so  eloquently,  so  wittily,  so 
prettily,  that  he  almost  persuades  you  to 
be  a  fellow-worshipper — almost,  only! — 
for  if  he  did  quite,  you  (being  a  capital- 
ist) would  buy  nothing  but  "Sibleys" 
(which  you  don't).  For  Sibley  was  the 
god  of  Joe's  worship,  and  none  other! 
and  he  would  hear  of  no  other  genius  in 
the  world ! 

Let  us  hope  that  he  sometimes  laughed 
at  himself  in  his  sleeve — or  winked  at 
himself  in  his  looking-glass,  with  his 
tongue  in  his  cheek ! 

And  here,  lest  there  should  be  any 
doubt  as  to  his  identity,  let  me  add  that 
although  quite  young  he  had  beautiful 
white  hair  like  an  Albino's,  as  soft  and 
bright  as  floss  silk — and  also  that  he  was 
tall  and  slim  and  graceful ;  and,  like  most 
of  the  other  personages  concerned  in  this 
light  story,  very  nice  to  look  at — with 
pretty  manners  (and  an  unimpeachable 
moral  tone). 

Joe  Sibley  did  not  think  much  of  Lor- 
rimer in  those  days,  nor  Lorrimer  of  him, 
for  all  they  were  such  good  friends.  And 
neither  of  them  thought  much  of  Little 
Billee,  whose  pinnacle  (of  pure  unadul- 
terated fame)  is  now  the  highest  of  all — 
the  highest  probably  that  can  be  for  a 
mere  painter  of  pictures! 

And  what  is  so  nice  about  Lorrimer, 
now  that  he  is  a  graybeard,  an  academi- 
cian, an  accomplished  man  of  the  world 
and  society,  is  that  he  admires  Sibley's 
genius  more  than  he  can  say — and  reads 
Mr.  Rudyard  Kipling's  delightful  stories 
as  well  as  Dante's  "Inferno" — and  can 
listen  with  delight  to  the  lovely  songs  of 
Signor  Tosti,  who  has  not  precisely  found- 
ed himself  on  Handel — can  even  scream 
with  laughter  at  a  comic  song — even  a 


TRILBY. 


579 


nigger  melody — so,  at  least,  that  it  but 
be  sung  in  well-bred  and  distinguished 
company — for  Lorrimer  is  no  bohe- 
mian. 

"  Shoo,  fly  !   don'tcher  bother  me ! 
For  I  belong  to  the  Comp'ny  G !" 

Both  these  famous  men  are  happi- 
ly (and  most  beautifully)  married — 
grandfathers,  for  all  I  know  —  and 
"move  in  the  very  best  society  "  (Lor- 
rimer always,  I'm  told;  Sibley  now 
and  then);  "la  haute,"  as  it  used  to 
be  called  in  French  bohemia — mean- 
ing dukes  and  lords  and  even  royal- 
ties, I  suppose,  and  those  who  love 
them,  and  whom  they  love ! 

That  is  the  best  society,  isn't  it?  At 
all  events,  we  are  assured  it  used  to 
be;  but  that  must  have  been  before 
the  present  scribe  (a  meek  and  some- 
what innocent  outsider)  had  been  priv- 
ileged to  see  it  with  his  own  little  eye. 

And  when  they  happen  to  meet  there 
(Sibley  and  Lorrimer,  I  mean),  I  don't 
expect  they  rush  very  wildly  into  each 
other's  arms,  or  talk  very  fluently 
about  old  times.  Nor  do  I  suppose 
their  wives  are  very  intimate.  None 
of  our  wives  are.  Not  even  Taffy's 
and  the  Laird's. 

Oh,  Orestes  I     Oh ,  Py lades ! 

Oh,  ye  impecunious,  unpinnacled 
young  inseparables  of  eighteen,  nineteen, 
twenty,  even  twenty-five,  who  share  each 
other's  thoughts  and  purses,  and  wear 
each  other's  clothes,  and  swear  each  oth- 
er's oaths,  and  smoke  each  other's  pipes, 
and  respect  each  other's  lights  o'  love, 
and  keep  each  other's  secrets,  and  tell 
each  other's  jokes,  and  pawn  each  oth- 
er's watches  and  merry  make  together  on 
the  proceeds,  and  sit  all  night  by  each 
other's  bedsides  in  sickness,  and  comfort 
each  other  in  sorrow  and  disappointment 
with  silent  manly  sympathy — "  wait  till 
you  get  to  forty  year!" 

Wait  even  till  each  or  either  of  you  gets 
himself  a  little  pinnacle  of  his  own — be 
it  ever  so  humble ! 

Nay,  wait  till  either  or  each  of  you  gets 
himself  a  wife ! 

History  goes  on  repeating  itself,  and 
so  do  novels,  and  this  is  a  plati- 
tude, and  there's  nothing  new  under  the 
sun. 

May  too  cecee  (as  the  idiomatic  Laird 
would  say,  in  the  language  he  adores) — 
may  too  cecee  ay  nee  eecee  nee  lah ! 


THE   TWO    APPRENTICES. 


Then  there  was  Dodor,  the  handsome 
young  dragon  de  la  garde— a  full  private, 
if  you  please,  with  a  beardless  face,  and 
damask-rosy  cheeks,  and  a  small  waist, 
and  narrow  feet  like  a  lady's,  and  who, 
strange  to  say,  spoke  English  just  like  an 
Englishman. 

And  his  friend  Gon  trail,. aZias  1'  Zouzou 
— a  corporal  in  the  Zouaves. 

Both  of  these  worthies  had  met  Taffy 
in  the  Crimea,  and  frequented  the  studios 
in  the  quartier  latin,  where  they  adored 
(and  were  adored  by)  the  grisettes  and 
models,  especially  Trilby. 

Both  of  them  were  distinguished  for 
being  the  worst  subjects  (lesplus  mauvais 
sujets)  of  their  respective  regiments;  yet 
both  were  special  favorites  not  only  with 
their  fellow-rankers,  but  with  those  in 
command,  from  their  colonels  down  wards. 

Both  were  in  the  habit  of  being  pro- 
moted to  the  rank  of  corporal  or  briga- 
dier, and  degraded  to  the  rank  of  private 
next  day  for  general  misconduct,  the  re- 
sult of  a  too  exuberant  delight  in  their 
promotion. 


580 


HARPER'S    NEW    MONTHLY   MAGAZINE. 


l/^'^ 


by  the  endless  fun  and 
amusement  they  gave  to 
all  outside. 

It  was  a  pretty  dance 
they  led;  but  our  three 
friends  of  the  Place  St.- 
Anatole  (who  hadn't  got 
to  pay  the  pipers)  loved 
them  both,  especially  Do- 
dor. 

One  fine  Sunday  after- 
noon Little  Billee  found 
himself  studying  life  and 
character  in  that  most  de- 
lightful and  festive  scene 
la  Fete  de  St.-Cloud,  and 
met  Dodor  and  1'  Zouzou 
there,  who  hailed  him  with 
delight,  saying: 

"Nous  allons  joliment 
jubiler,  nom  d'une  pipe!" 
and  insisted  on  his  joining 
in  their  amusements  and 
paying  for  them — rounda- 
bouts, swings,  the  giant, 
the  dwarf,  the  strong  man, 
the  fat  woman — to  whom 
they  made  love  and  were 
taken  too  seriously,  and 
turned  out — the  menagerie 
of  wild  beasts,  whom  they 
teased  and  aggravated  till 
the  police  had  to  inter- 
fere. Also  alfresco  dances, 
where  their  cancan  step 
was  of  the  wildest  and 
most  unbridled  character, 
till  a  sous-officier  or  a  gen- 
darme came  in  sight,  and 
then  they  danced  quite 
mincingly  and  demurely, 
Neither  of  them  knew  fear,  envy,  mal-  en  maitre  oVecole,  as  they  called  it,  to  the 
ice,  temper,  or  low  spirits;  ever  said  or  did  huge  delight  of  an  immense  and  ever-in- 
an  ill-natured  thing;  ever  even  thought  creasing  crowd,  and  the  disgust  of  all 
one;  ever  had  an  enemy  but  himself,  truly  respectable  men. 
Both  had  the  best  or  the  worst  manners  They  also  insisted  on  Little  Billee's 
going,  according  to  their  company,  whose  walking  between  them,  arm  in  arm,  and 
manners  they  reflected;  they  were  true  talking  to  them  in  English  whenever 
chameleons!  they  saw  coming  toward  them  a  respec- 

Both  were  always  ready  to  share  their  table  English  family  with  daughters.  It 
last  ten -sou  piece  (not  that  they  ever  was  the  dragoon's  delight  to  get  himself 
seemed  to  have  one)  with  each  other  or  stared  at  by  fair  daughters  of  Albion  for 
anybody  else,  or  anybody  else's  last  ten-  speaking  as  good  English  as  themselves 
sou  piece  with  you  ;  to  offer  you  a  friend's  — a  rare  accomplishment  in  a  French 
cigar;  to  invite  you  to  dine  with  any  trooper— and  Zouzou's  happiness  to  be 
friend  they  had;  to  fight  with  you,  or  thought  English  too,  though  the  only 
for  you,  at  a  moment's  notice.  And  they  English  he  knew  was  the  phrase  "  I  will 
made  up  for  all  the  anxiety,  tribulation,  not!  I  will  not!"  which  he  had  picked  up 
shame,  and  sorrow  they  caused  at  home     in  the  Crimea,  and  repeated  over  and  over 


WILL   NOT!   I   WILL   NOT!" 


TRILBY. 


581 


again  when  he  came  within  ear-shot  of 
a  pretty  English  girl. 

Little  Billee  was  not  happy  in  these 
circumstances.  He  was  no  snob.  But  he 
was  a  respectably  brought  -  up  young 
Briton  of  the  higher  middle  class,  and  it 
was  not  quite  pleasant  for  him  to  be 
seen  (by  fair  countrywomen  of  his  own) 
walking  arm  in  arm  on  a  Sunday  after- 
noon with  a  couple  of  French  private 
soldiers,  and  uncommonly  rowdy  ones  at 
that. 

Later,  they  came  back  to  Paris  together 
on  the  top  of  an  omnibus,  among  a  very 
proletarian  crowd,  and  there  the  two  face- 
tious warriors  immediately  made  them- 
selves pleasant  all  round  and  became 
very  popular,  especially  with  the  women 
and  children,  but  not,  I  regret  to  say, 
through  the  propriety,  refinement,  and 
distinction  of  their  behavior.  Little 
Billie  resolved  that  he  would  not  go 
a-pleasuring  with  them  any  more. 

However,  they  stuck  to  him  through 
thick  and  thin,  and  insisted  on  escorting 
him  all  the  way  back  to 
the  quartier  latin,  by  the 
Pont  de  la  Concorde  and 
the  Rue  de  Lille  in  the 
Faubourg  St. -Germain. 

Little  Billee  loved  the 
Faubourg  St. -Germain,  es- 
pecially the  Rue  de  Lille. 
He  was  fond  of  gazing  at 
the  magnificent  old  man- 
sions, the  "hotels"  of  the 
old  French  noblesse,  or 
rather  the  outside  walls 
thereof,  the  grand  sculp- 
tured portals  with  the  ar- 
morial bearings  and  the 
splendid  old  historic 
names  above  them — Hotel 
de  This,  Hotel  de  That, 
Rohan  -  Chabot,  Montmo- 
rency, La  Rochefoucauld- 
Liancourt,  La  Tour  d'Au- 
vergne. 

He  would  forget  himself 
in  romantic  dreams  of  past 
and  forgotten  French  chiv- 
alry which  these  glorious 
names  called  up;  for  he 
knew  a  little  'of  French 
history,  loving  to  read 
Froissart  and  St. -Simon 
and  the  genial  Brantome. 

Halting  opposite  one  of 
the  finest  and  oldest  of  all 


these  gateways,  his  especial  favorite,  la- 
belled "Hotel  de  la  Rochemartel "  in 
letters  of  faded  gold  over  a  ducal  coronet 
and  a  huge  escutcheon  of  stone,  he  began 
to  descant  upon  its  architectural  beauties 
and  noble  proportions  to  1'  Zouzou. 

"  ParbleuT  said  1'  Zouzou,  "  connu, 
farceur!  why,  I  wras  born  there,  on  the 
6th  of  March,  1834,  at  5.30  in  the  morn- 
ing.    Lucky  day  for  France,  heinf 

"Born  there?  what  do  you  mean — in 
the  porter's  lodge?" 

At  this  juncture  the  two  great  gates 
rolled  back,  a  liveried  Suisse  appeared, 
and  an  open  carriage  and  pair  came  out, 
and  in  it  were  two  elderly  ladies  and  a 
younger  one. 

To  Little  Billee's  indignation,  the  two 
incorrigible  warriors  made  the  military 
salute,  and  the  three  ladies  bowed  stiffly 
and  gravely. 

And  then  (to  Little  Billee's  horror  this 
time)  one  of  them  happened  to  look  back, 
and  Zouzou  actually  kissed  his  hand  to 
her. 


THE   CAPITALIST   AND   THE    SWELL,. 


HARPER'S  NEW  MONTHLY  MAGAZINE. 


HOTEL   DE   LA   ROCHEMARTEL. 


"  Do  you  know  that  lady?"  asked  Little 
Billee,  very  sternly. 

1 4  Parbleu !  si  je  la  connais !  Why,  it's 
my  mother!  Isn't  she  nice?  She's  rath- 
er cross  with  me  just  now." 

"Your  mother!  Why,  what  do  you 
mean?  What  on  earth  would  your  mo- 
ther be  doing  in  that  big  carriage  and  at 
that  big  house?" 

"  Parbleu,  farceur!    She  lives  there !" 

"Lives  there!  Why,  who  and  what 
is  she,  your  mother?" 

11  The  Duchesse  de  la  Rochemartel,  par- 
bleu! and  that's  my  sister;  and  that's 
my  aunt,  Princesse  de  Chevagne-Bauffre- 
mont!      She's    the    ' patronne'   of    that 


chic  equipage.  She's  a 
millionaire,  my  aunt 
Chevagne!" 

"  Well,  I  never ! 
What's  your  name, 
then?" 

"  Oh,  my  name!  Hang 
it  —  let  me  see!  Well 
— Gontran  —  Xavier — 
Francois  —  Marie  —  Jo- 
seph d'Amaury — Brissac 
de  Roncesvaulx  de  la 
Rochemartel  -  Boissegur, 
at  your  service !" 

"Quite  correct!"  said 
Dodor  ;  ' '  V enfant  dit 
vrai  /" 

"  Well  —  I  —  never  ! 
And  what's  your  name, 
Dodor?" 

"  Oh  !  I'm  only  a 
humble  individual,  and 
answer  to  the  one-horse 
name  of  Theodore  Ri- 
golot  de  Lafarce.  But 
Zouzou's  an  awful  swell, 
you  know;  his  brother's 
the  Duke!" 

Little  Billee  was  no 
snob.  But  he  was  a 
respectably  brought -up 
young  Briton  of  the 
higher  middle  class,  and 
these  revelations,  which 
he  could  not  but  believe, 
astounded  him  so  that 
he  could  hardly  speak. 
Much  as  he  flattered 
himself  that  he  scorned 
the  bloated  aristocracy, 
titles  are  titles  —  even 
French  titles  !  —  and 
when  it  comes  to  dukes 
and  princesses  who  live  in  houses  like  the 

Hotel  de  la  Rochemartel ! 

It's    enough    to    take    a    respectably 

brought-up  young  Briton's  breath  away ! 

When  he  saw  Taffy  that  evening,  he 

exclaimed:    "I  say,  Zouzou's  mother's  a 

duchess!" 

"  Yes—the  Duchesse  de  laRochemartel- 
Boissegur." 

"  You  never  told  me!" 
11  You  never  asked  me.     It's  one  of  the 
greatest  names  in  France.     They're  very 
poor,  I  believe." 

11  Poor!  You  should  see  the  house  they 
live  in !" 

"I've  been  there,  to  dinner;    and  the 


TRILBY. 


583 


dinner  wasn't  very  good.  They  let  a 
great  part  of  it,  and  live  mostly  in  the 
country.  The  Duke  is  Zouzou's  brother; 
very  unlike  Zouzou  ;  he's  consumptive 
and  unmarried,  and  the  most  respectable 
man  in  Paris.  Zouzou  will  be  the  Duke 
some  day." 

"And  Dodor — he's  a  swell  too,  I  sup- 
pose— he  says  lie's  de  something  or  other !" 

"Yes  —  Rigolot  de  Lafarce.  I've  no 
doubt  he  descends  from  the  Crusaders 
too;  the  name  seems  to  favor  it,  anyhow; 
and  such  lots  of  them  do  in  this  country. 
His  mother  was  English,  and  bore  the 
worthy  name  of  Brown.  He  was  at 
school  in  England;  that's  why  he  speaks 


Dodor!     His  sister's  about  the  only  liv- 
ing thing  he  cares  for — except  Zouzou." 

I  wonder  if  the  bland  and  genial  Mon- 
sieur Theodore — "  notre  Sieur  Theodore  " 
— now  junior  partner  in  the  great  haber- 
dashery firm  of  "Passefil  et  Rigolot,"  on 
the  Boulevard  des  Capucines,  and  a  pillar 
of  the  English  chapel  in  the  Rue  Mar- 
bceuf,  is  very  hard  on  his  employes  and 
employees  if  they  are  a  little  late  at  their 
counters  on  a  Monday  morning? 

I  wonder  if  that  stuck-up,  stingy,  stodgy  r 
communard-shooting,  church-going,  time- 
serving, place-hunting,  pious-eyed,  pom- 
pous  old   prig,  martinet,  and   philistine, 
Monsieur  le   Marechal-Duc  de    la 
Rochemartel  -  Boissegur,  ever  tells 
Madame    la    Marechale  -  Duchesse 
(nee  Hunks,  of  Chicago)  how  once 
upon  a  time  Dodor  and  he — 

We   will    tell   no   tales   out    of 
school. 


DODOR   IN    HIS    GLORY. 


English  so  well — and  behaves  so  badly, 
perl  laps !  He's  got  a  very  beautiful  sister, 
married  to  a  man  in  the  60th  Rifles — Jack 
Reeve,  a  son  of  Lord  Reevely's;  a  selfish 
sort  of  chap.  I  don't  suppose  he  gets  on 
very  well  with  his  brother-in-law.     Poor 


The  present  scribe  is  no  snob.  He  is  a 
respectably  brought-up  old  Briton  of  the 
higher  middle-class — at  least,  he  flatters- 
himself  so.  And  he  writes  for  just  such 
old  philistines  as  himself,  who  date  from 
a  time  when  titles  were  not  thought  so 


584 


HARPER'S    NEW    MONTHLY    MAGAZINE. 


cheap  as  to-day.  Alas!  all  reverence  for 
all  that  is  high  and  time-honored  and 
beautiful  seems  at  a  discount. 

So  he  has  kept  his  blackguard  ducal 
Zouave  for  the  bouquet  of  this  little  show 
— the  final  bonne  bouche  in  his  bohemian 
menu — that  he  may  make  it  palatable  to 
those  who  only  look  upon  the  good  old 
quartier  latin  (now  no  more  to  speak  of) 
as  a  very  low,  common,  vulgar  quarter 
indeed,  deservedly  swept  away,  where 
misters  the  students  (shocking  bounders 
and  cads)  had  nothing  better  to  do,  day 
and  night,  than  mount  up  to  a  horrid 
place  called  the  thatched  house — la  chau- 
miere — 

"Pour  y  danser  V  cancan, 
Ou  le  Robert  Macaire — 
Toujours — toujours — toujours — 
La  nuit  comnie  le  jour.  .  .  . 
Et  youp  !  youp  !   voup ! 
Tra  la  la  la  la la  la  la !" 


Christmas  was  drawing  near. 

There  were  days  when  the  whole  quar- 
tier latin  would  veil  its  iniquities  under 
fogs  almost  worthy  of  the  Thames  Val- 
ley between  London  Bridge  and  West- 
minster, and  out  of  the  studio  window 
the  prospect  was  a  dreary  blank.  No 
morgue!  no  towers  of  Notre  Dame!  not 
even  the  chimney-pots  over  the  way — 
not  even  the  little  mediaeval  toy  turret  at 
the  corner  of  the  Rue  Vieille  des  Mauvais 
Ladres,  Little  Billee's  delight! 

The  stove  had  to  be  crammed  till  its 
sides  grew  a  dull  deep  red  before  one's 
fingers  could  hold  a  brush  or  squeeze  a 
bladder;  one  had  to  box  or  fence  at  nine 
in  the  morning,  that  one  might  recover 
from  the  cold  bath,  and  get  warm  for  the 
rest  of  the  day ! 

Taffy  and  the  Laird  grew  pensive  and 
dreamy,  childlike,  and  bland;  and  when 
they  talked  it  was  generally  about  Christ- 
mas at  home  in  merry  England  and  the 
distant  land  of  cakes,  and  how  good  it 
was  to  be  there  at  such  a  time — hunting, 
shooting,  curling,  and  endless  carouse ! 

It  was  Ho!  for  the  jolly  West  Riding, 
and  Hey !  for  the  bonnets  of  Bonnie  Dun- 
dee, till  they  grew  quite  homesick,  and 
wanted  to  start  by  the  very  next  train. 

They  didn't  do  anything  so  foolish. 
They  wrote  over  to  friends  in  London  for 
the  biggest  turkey,  the  biggest  plum -pud- 
ding, that  could  be  got  for  love  or  money, 


with  mince  pies,  and  holly  and  mistletoe, 
and  sturdy  short  thick  English  sausages, 
half  a  Stilton  cheese,  and  a  sirloin  of  beef 
— two  sirloins,  in  case  one  should  not  be 
enough. 

For  they  meant  to  have  a  Homeric 
feast  in  the  studio  on  Christmas  day — 
Taffy,  the  Laird,  and  Little  Billee — and 
invite  all  the  delightful  chums  I  have 
been  trying  to  describe;  and  that  is  just 
why  I  tried  to  describe  them — Durien, 
Vincent,  Sibley,  Lorrirner,  Carnegie,  Pe- 
trol icoconose,  1'  Zouzou,  and  Dodor! 

The  cooking  and  waiting  should  be 
done  by  Trilby,  her  friend  Angele  Boisse, 
M.  et  Mme.  Vinard,  and  such  little  Vi- 
nards  as  could  be  trusted  with  glass  and 
crockery  and  mince  pies;  and  if  that  was 
not  enough,  they  would  also  cook  them- 
selves and  wait  upon  each  other. 

When  dinner  should  be  over,  supper 
was  to  follow  with  scarcely  any  interval 
to  speak  of;  and  to  partake  of  this  other 
guests  should  be  bidden — Svengali  and 
Gecko,  and  perhaps  one  or  two  more.  No 
ladies ! 

For,  as  the  unsusceptible  Laird  ex- 
pressed it,  in  the  language  of  a  gillie  he 
had  once  met  at  a  servants'  dance  in  a 
Highland  country  house,  "Them  wimmen 
spiles  the  ball !" 

Elaborate  cards  of  invitation  were  sent 
out,  in  the  designing  and  ornamentation 
of  which  the  Laird  and  Taffy  exhausted 
all  their  fancy  (Little  Billee  had  no  time). 

Wines  and  spirits  and  English  beers 
were  procured  at  great  cost  from  M.  E. 
Delevingne's,  in  the  Rue  St.-Honore,  and 
liqueurs  of  every  description — chartreuse, 
curacoa,  ratafia  de  cassis,  and  anisette;  no 
expense  was  spared. 

Also,  truffled  galantines  of  turkey, 
tongues,  hams,  rillettes  de  Tours,  pates 
de  foie  gras,  "fromage  d'ltalie  "  (which 
has  nothing  to  do  with  cheese),  saucissons 
d'Arles  et  de  Lyon,  with  and  without  gar- 
lic, cold  jellies  peppery  and  salt — every- 
thing that  French  charcutiers  and  their 
wives  can  make  out  of  French  pigs,  or 
any  other  animal  whatever,  beast,  bird, 
or  fowl  (even  cats  and  rats)— for  the  sup- 
per; and  sweet  jellies,  and  cakes,  and 
sweetmeats,  and  confections  of  all  kinds, 
from  the  famous  pastry-cook  at  the  cor- 
ner of  the  Rue  Castiglione. 

Mouths  went  watering  all  day  long  in 
joyful  anticipation.  They  water  some- 
what sadly  now  at  the  mere  remem- 
brance   of    these    delicious    things — the 


TRILBY. 


585 


mere  immediate  sight  or 
scent  of  which  in  these 
degenerate  latter  days 
would  no  longer  avail  to 
promote  any  such  delec- 
table secretion.  Helas  ! 
ahime !  ach  weh !  ay  de 
mi !  eheu  !  oiftoi — in  point 
of  fact,  alas! 

That  is  the  very  excla- 
mation I  wanted. 

Christmas  eve  came 
round.  The  pieces  of  re- 
sistance and  plum  -  pud- 
ding and  mince  pies  had 
not  yet  arrived  from  Lon- 
don— but  there  was  plenty 
of  time. 

Les  trois  Angliches  dined 
at  le  pere  Trin's,  as  usual, 
and  played  billiards  and 
dominoes  at  the  Cafe  du 
Luxembourg,  and  possess- 
ed their  souls  in  patience 
till  it  was  time  to  go  and 
hear  the  midnight  mass  at 
the  Madeleine,  where  Rou- 
couly,  the  great  barytone 
of  the  Opera  Comique,  was 
retained  to  sing  Adam's 
famous  Noel. 

The  whole  quartier  seem- 
ed alive  with  the  reveillon. 
It  was  a  clear  frosty  night, 
with  a  splendid  moon  just 
past  the  full,  and  most  ex- 
hilarating was    the    walk 
along   the    quays   on   the 
Rive     Gauche,    over     the 
Pont  de  la  Concorde  and 
across  the  Place  thereof, 
and  up  the  thronged  Rue 
de  la  Madeleine  to  the  massive  Parthenaic 
place  of  worship  that  always  has  such  a 
pagan  worldly  look  of  smug  and  prosper- 
ous modernity. 

They  struggled  manfully,  and  found 
standing  and  kneeling  room  among  that 
fervent  crowd,  and  heard  the  impressive 
service  with  mixed  feelings,  as  became 
true  Britons  of  very  advanced  liberal  and 
religious  opinions;  not  with  the  unmixed 
contempt  of  the  proper  British  Orthodox 
(who  were  there  in  full  force,  one  may 
be  sure). 

But  their  susceptible  hearts  soon  melted 
at  the  beautiful  music,  and  in  mere  sensu- 
ous attendrissement  they  were  quickly  in 
unison  with  all  the  rest. 


CHRISTMAS   EVE. 


For  as  the  clock  struck  twelve  out 
pealed  the  organ,  and  up  rose  the  finest 
voice  in  France: 

"  Minuit,  Chretiens !  c'est  l'heure  solennelle 
Ou  l'Homine-Dieu  descendit  parmi  nous !" 

And  a  wave  of  religious  emotion  rolled 
over  Little  Billee  and  submerged  him; 
swept  him  off  his  little  legs,  swept  him 
out  of  his  little  self,  drowned  him  in  a 
great  seething  surge  of  love — love  of  his 
kind,  love  of  love,  love  of  life,  love  of 
death,  love  of  all  that  is  and  ever  was 
and  ever  will  be — a  very  large  order  in- 
deed, even  for  Little  Billee. 

And  it  seemed  to  him  that  he  stretched 
out  his  arms  for  love  to  one  figure  espe- 


586 


HARPER'S    NEW    MONTHLY    MAGAZINE. 


cially  beloved  beyond  all  the  rest — one  fig- 
ure erect  on  high  with  arms  outstretched 
to  him,  in  more  than  common  fellowship 
of  need;  not  the  sorrowful  figure  crowned 
with  thorns,  for  it  was  in  the  likeness  of 
a  woman ;  but  never  that  of  the  Virgin 
Mother  of  Our  Lord. 

It  was  Trilby,  Trilby,  Trilby!  a  poor 
fallen  sinner  and  waif  all  but  lost  amid 
the  scum  of  the  most  corrupt  city  on 
earth.  Trilby  weak  and  mortal  like  him- 
self, and  in  woful  want  of  pardon !  and 
in  her  gray  dovelike  eyes  he  saw  the 
shining  of  so  great  a  love  that  he  was 
abashed;  for  well  he  knew  that  all  that 
love  was  his,  and  would  be  his  forever, 
come  what  would  or  could. 

"  Peuple,  debout !     Chante  ta  delivrance! 
Noel!  Noel!      Void  le  Redempteur /" 

So  sang  and  rang  and  pealed  and 
echoed  the  big  deep  metallic  barytone 
bass — above  the  organ,  above  the  incense, 
above  everything  else  in  the  world — till 
the  very  universe  seemed  to  shake  with 
the  rolling  thunder  of  that  great  message 
of  love  and  forgiveness ! 

Thus  at  least  felt  Little  Billee,  whose 
way  it  was  to  magnify  and  exaggerate 


"  ALLONS,  GLYCERE!   ROUGIS  MON  VERRE  . 


all  things  under  the  subtle  stimulus  of 
sound,  and  the  singing  human  voice  had 
especially  strange  power  to  penetrate  into 
his  inmost  depths — even  the  voice  of  man ! 
And  what  voice  but  the  deepest  and 
gravest  and  grandest  there  is  can  give 
worthy  utterance  to  such  a  message  as 
that,  the  epitome,  the  abstract,  the  very 
essence  of  all  collective  humanity's  wis- 
dom at  its  best ! 

Little  Billee  reached  the  Hotel  Cor- 
neille  that  night  in  a  very  exalted  frame 
of  mind  indeed,  the  loftiest,  lowliest  mood 
of  all. 

Now  see  what  sport  we  are  of  trivial, 
base,  ignoble  earthly  things! 

Sitting  on  the  door-step  and  smoking 
two  cigars  at  once  he  found  Ribot,  one  of 
his  fellow-lodgers,  whose  room  was  just 
under  his  own.  Ribot  was  so  tipsy  that 
he  could  not  ring.  But  he  could  still  sing, 
and  did  so  at  the  top  of  his  voice.  It  was 
not  the  Noel  of  Adam  that  he  sang.  He 
had  not  spent  his  reveillon  in  any  church. 
With  the  help  of  a  sleepy  waiter,  Little 
Billee  got  the  bacchanalian  into  his  room 
and  lit  his  candle  for  him,  and  disenga- 
ging himself  from  his  maudlin  embraces, 
left  him  to  wallow  in  solitude. 

As  he  lay  awake  in 
his  bed,  trying  to  recall 
the  deep  and  high  emo- 
tions of  the  evening,  he 
heard  the  tipsy  hog  be- 
low tumbling  about  his 
room  and  still  trying  to 
sing  his  senseless  ditty : 

"Allons,  Glycere! 
Rougis  mon  verre 
Du  jus  divin  dont  mon  coeur 
est  tou jours  jaloux. . . . 
Et  puis  a  table, 
Bacchante  aimable ! 
Enivrons  -  nous      (hie)     Les- 
g-glougloux  sont  des  ren- 
dezvous !". .  .  . 


Then  the  song  ceased 
for  a  while,  and  soon 
there  were  other  sounds^ 
as  on  a  channel  steamer. 
Glougloux  indeed ! 

Then  the  fear  arose 
in  Little  Billee's  mind 
lest  the  drunken  beast 
should  set  fire  to  his. 
bedroom  curtains.  All 
heavenly  visions  were 
chased  away  for  the 
night .... 


A   STEEL   TOOL. 


587 


Our  hero,  half  crazed  with  fear,  disgust, 
and  irritation,  lay  wide-awake,  his  nostrils 
on  the  watch  for  the  smell  of  burning" 
chintz  or  muslin,  and  wondered  how  an 
educated  man — for  Ribot  was  a  law-student 
— could  ever  make  such  a  filthy  beast  of 
himself  as  that!  It  was  a  scandal — a  dis- 
grace ;  it  was  not  to  be  borne  ;  there 
should  be  no  forgiveness  for  such  as  Ri- 
bot— not  even  on  Christmas  day  !  He 
would  complain  to  Madame  Paul,  the 
patronne;  he  would  have  Ribot  turned 
out  into  the  street  ;  he  would  leave  the 
hotel  himself  the  very  next  morning!  At 
last  he  fell  asleep,  thinking  of  all  he  would 
do;  and  thus,  ridiculously  and  ignomini- 
ously  for  Little  Billee,  ended  the  reveillon. 

Next  morning  he  complained  to  Madame 
Paul;  and  though  he  did  not  give  her 


warning,  nor  even  insist  on  the  expulsion 
of  Ribot  (who,  as  he  heard  with  a  hard 
heart,  was  "  bien  malade  ce  matin"),  he 
expressed  himself  very  severely  on  the 
conduct  of  that  gentleman,  and  on  the 
dangers  from  fire  that  might  arise  from  a 
tipsy  man  being  trusted  alone  in  a  small 
bedroom  with  chintz  curtains  and  a  light- 
ed candle.  If  it  hadn't  been  for  himself, 
he  told  her,  Ribot  would  have  slept  on  the 
door-step,  and  served  him  right!  He  was 
really  grand  in  his  virtuous  indignation, 
in  spite  of  his  imperfect  French  ;  and 
Madame  Paul  was  deeply  contrite  for  her 
peccant  lodger,  and  profuse  in  her  apolo- 
gies; and  Little  Billee  began  his  twenty- 
first  Christmas  day  like  a  Pharisee,  thank- 
ing his  star  that  he  was  not  as  Ribot! 
[to  be  continued.] 


GREAT    AMERICAN    INDUSTRIES. 

EDITED    BY    K.  R.  BOWKEE. 


XI.— A  STEEL   TOOL. 


mO  the  question  "What  is  steel?" 
A  many  answers  have  been  given. 
Before  the  discovery  of  the  Bessemer 
process  it  would  have  been  defined  as  a 
compound  of  iron  and  carbon,  includ- 
ing from  ^  to  2\  per  cent,  of  the  latter, 
which  could  be  hardened,  softened, 
tempered,  drawn,  and  welded.  Capaci- 
ty of  tempering  and  welding  still  fix 
the  advanced  limit  of  steel,  but  at  the 
lower  end  of  the  scale  it  has  dropped 
from  \  per  cent,  of  carbon  to  y1^-,  there- 
by enormously  multiplying  its  uses  and 
applications.  The  causes  and  processes 
which  have  effected  this  advance  in 
metallurgy  have  re-created  many  of 
the  world's  most  important  industries. 
In  the  primitive  ages  of  metallurgy 
iron  and  steel  were  made  from  rich 
ores  with  charcoal  fuel,  and  the  iron- 
maker  did  not  need  to  trouble  himself 
with  the  stubborn  problems  offered  by 
the  presence  of  sul  phur  and  phosphorus. 
But  with  the  exhaustion  of  the  rich  ores 
which  were  available  for  use,  and  the 
need  of  substituting  mineral  fuel  for 
charcoal, these  dangerous  enemies  came 
to  the  fore.  The  presence  of  sulphur, 
beyond  a  mere  trace,  in  any  of  the  forms 
of  iron  destroys  its  welding  power,  and 
renders  it  highly  brittle  at  a  red  heat,  or, 
technically,  "red  short."  Phosphorus 
causes    brittleness    when    cold,   that    is, 

Vol.  LXXXVIII.— No.  526.-55 


SIR   HENRY   BESSEMER. 

From  a  photograph  by  the  London  Stereoscopic  and  Photographic  Company. 


makes  iron  "cold  short,"  and  fragile  at 
any  sudden  shock.  When  steel  ceased 
to  be  a  direct  product  of  the  forge,  or  to 
be  made  in  any  large  quantity  from  pure 
bloomary  iron,  the  question  arose  how  it 
could  be  obtained  from  the  impure  and. 


588 


HARPERS   NEW    MONTHLY    MAGAZINE. 


SIDNEY   GILCHRIST   THOMAS. 

From  a  photograph  by  S.  Victor  White,  Reading. 


highly  carburized  product  of  the  blast- 
furnace. This  was  answered  by  the  op- 
eration of  refining,  which  did  not  fully 
eliminate  the  evils  that  threatened,  af- 
fording but  a  makeshift  product  for  the 
raw  material  of  steel.  The  imperfectly 
cleansed  bars  were  then  treated  by  the  cem- 
entation method.  It  was  known  more 
than  two  centuries  ago  that  wrought  iron 
enveloped  in  powdered  charcoal  and  re- 
tained at  a  red  heat  for  a  long  time  would 
gradually  change  into  steel.  Until  1740 
this  process  was  used,  with  the  further 
addition  of  reheating  the  "blister-steel" 
so  produced,  and  hammering  it  into  what 
was  known  as  "shear-metal,1'  so  called 
because  it  was  first  used  for  sheep-shears. 
But  the  product  was  wretched,  and  good 
highly  temperable  steel  was  imported 
from  the  far  East  at  great  cost. 

A  working  clock-maker,  Huntsman  by 
name,  disgusted  with  the  poor  quality  of 
watch-springs,  set  his  brains  at  work  to 
find  a  remedy.  Being  a  bright- witted 
man,  he  visited  the  different  steel-works 
and  studied  the  chemistry  of  his  subject; 
and  after  several  years  of  research  he 
erected  a  furnace,  which  produced  steel 
so  excellent  as  to  stir  universal  wonder, 
and  set  his  own  feet  on  the  highway  to 
wealth.  But  his  secret  was  filched  by  a 
rival,  who,  in  the  disguise  of  a  drunken 


tramp,  begged  shelter  at  his  furnace  door 
one  stormy  winter  night.  The  keen-eyed 
thief  discovered  enough  in  what  he  saw 
and  heard  to  repeat  Huntsman's  success. 
The  best  steel  of  to-day  is  still  made  by 
this  process.  This  discovery,  in  the  course 
of  a  few  years,  reduced  the  price  of  the 
highest  grade  of  steel  from  £1000  to  £100 
per  ton. 

The  cementation  method  of  steel-mak- 
ing, with  Huntsman's  addition,  may  be 
briefly  summarized  as  the  packing  of 
wrought-iron  bars  in  charcoal  dust.  They 
are  cemented  in  a  fire-brick  chamber,  and 
suffer  a  dull  red  heat  for  a  period  of  about 
ten  days.  Removal  of  the  bars  shows  the 
peculiar  condition  known  as  blister-steel, 
so  called  from  the  swellings  on  the  sur- 
face, which  are  caused  by  the  occlusion 
of  carbonic  oxide.  The  metal  is  hard 
and  brittle,  and  breaks  easily  with  a  ham- 
mer-tap. The  following  stage  is  that  dis- 
covered, or,  more  properly,  revived,  by 
Huntsman,  for  it  was  essentially  in  use  in 
the  East  from  early  days.  Broken  pieces 
are  packed  in  crucibles  of  from  60  to  80 
pounds  capacity,  with  certain  proportions 
of  black  oxide  of  manganese.  The  cruci- 
bles are  made  of  refractory  clay,  graphite, 
and  old  pots  pounded  to  a  dust,  and  their 
manu  facture  is  now  an  important  industry 
in  itself.  The  pots  are  arranged  in  pairs  in 
furnaces,  the  openings  of  which  are  level 


SIR   WILLIAM   SIEMENS. 

I'roni  a  photograph  by  Mayall  and  Co.,  London. 


TKILBY.* 

BY  GEORGE   DU  MAURIER. 

$art  ifourti). 


MID-DAY  had  struck.  The  expected 
hamper  had  not  turned  up  in  the 
Place  St.-Anatole  des  Arts. 

All  Madame  Vinard's  kitchen  battery 
was  in  readiness;  Trilby  and  Madame 
Angele  Boisse  were  in  the  studio,  their 
sleeves  turned  up,  and  ready  to  begin. 

At  twelve  the  Trois  Angliches  and  the 
two  fair  blanchisseuses  sat  down  to  lunch 
in  a  very  anxious  frame  of  mind;  and 


that  did  not  rightly  belong  to  her,  and  of 
course  getting  her  own  way  in  the  end. 

And  that,  as  the  Laird  remarked,  was 
her  confounded  Trilbiness. 

Two  o'clock — three — four — but  no  ham- 
per! Darkness  had  almost  set  in.  It 
was  simply  maddening.  They  kneeled 
on  the  divan,  with  their  elbows  on  the 
window-sill,  and  watched  the  street  lamps 
popping  into  life  along  the  quays — and 


SOUVENIR. 


finished  a  pate  de  foie  gras  and  two  bot- 
tles of  Burgundy  between  them,  such  was 
their  disquietude. 

The  guests  had  been  invited  for  six 
o'clock. 

Most  elaborately  they  laid  the  cloth  on 
the  table  they  had  borrowed  from  the  Ho- 
tel de  Seine,  and  settled  who  was  to  sit 
next  to  whom,  and  then  unsettled  it,  and 
quarrelled  over  it— Trilby,  as  was  her  wont 
in   such  matters,  assuming  an  authority 

*  Begun  in  January  number,  1894 


looked  out  through  the  gathering 
dusk  for  the  van  from  the  Chemin 
de  Fer  du  Nord  —  and  gloomily 
thought  of  the  Morgue,  which  they 
could  still  make  out  across  the  river. 
At  length  the  Laird  and  Trilby 
went  off  in  a  cab  to  the  station — a 
long  drive — and,  Vol  before  they 
came  back  the  long-expected  ham- 
per arrived,  at  six  o'clock. 

And  with  it  Durien,  Vincent, 
Sibley,  Lorrimer,  Carnegie,  Petrolicoco- 
nose,  Dodor,  and  l'Zouzou — the  last  two 
in  uniform,  as  usual. 

And  suddenly  the  studio,  which  had 
been  so  silent,  dark,  and  dull,  with  Taffy 
and  Little  Billee  sitting  hopeless  and  de- 
spondent round  the  stove,  became  a  scene 
of  the  noisiest,  busiest,  and  cheerfulest 
animation.  The  three  big  lamps  were  lit, 
and  all  the  Chinese  lanterns.  The  pieces 
of    resistance    and    the    pudding    were 


722 


HARPER'S    NEW    MONTHLY    MAGAZINE. 


whisked  off  by  Trilby,  Angele,  and  Ma- 
dame Vinard  to  other  regions — the  por- 
ter's lodge  and  Durien's  studio  (which 
had  been  lent  for  the  purpose);  and  ev- 
ery one  was  pressed  into  the  preparations 
for  the  banquet.  There  was  plenty  for 
idle  hands  to  do.  Sausages  to  be  fried 
for  the  turkey,  stuffing  made,  and  sauces, 
salads  mixed,  and  punch — holly  hung  in 
festoons  all  round  and  about — a  thou- 
sand things.  Everybody  was  so  clever 
and  good-humored  that  nobody  got  in 
anybody's  way — not  even  Carnegie,  who 
was  in  evening  dress  (to  the  Laird's  de- 
light). So  they  made  him  do  the  scull- 
ion's work  —  cleaning,  rinsing,  peeling, 
etc. 

The  cooking  of  the  dinner  was  almost 
better  fun  than  the  eating  of  it.  And 
though  there  were  so  many  cooks,  not 
even  the  broth  was  spoilt  (cockaleekie, 
from  a  receipt  of  the  Laird's). 

It  was  ten  o'clock  before  they  sat  down 
to  that  most  memorable  repast. 

Zouzou  and  Dodor,  who  had  been  the 
most  useful  and  energetic  of  all  its  cooks, 
apparently  quite  forgot  they  were  due  at 
their  respective  barracks  at  that  very  mo- 
ment: they  had  only  been  able  to  obtain 
"la  permission  de  dix  heures."  If  they 
remembered  it,  the  certainty  that  next 
day  Zouzou  would  be  reduced  to  the 
ranks  for  the  fifth  time,  and  Dodor  con- 
fined to  his  barracks  for  a  month,  did  not 
trouble  them  in  the  least. 

The  waiting  was  as  good  as  the  cook- 
ing. The  handsome,  quick,  authoritative 
Madame  Vinard  was  in  a  dozen  places  at 
once,  and  openly  prompted,  rebuked,  and 
ballyragged  her  husband  into  a  proper 
smartness.  The  pretty  little  Madame 
Angele  moved  about  as  deftly  and  as  qui- 
etly as  a  mouse;  which  of  course  did  not 
prevent  them  both  from  genially  joining 
in  the  general  conversation  whenever  it 
wandered  into  French. 

Trilby,  tall,  graceful,  and  stately,  and 
also  swift  of  action,  though  more  like 
Juno  or  Diana  than  Hebe,  devoted  her- 
self more  especially  to  her  own  particu- 
lar favorites— Durien,  Taffy,  the  Laird, 
Little  Billee —  and  Dodor  and  Zouzou, 
whom  she  loved,  and  tutoye'd  en  bonne 
camarade  as  she  served  them  with  all 
there  was  of  the  choicest. 

The  two  little  Vinards  did  their  little 
best  —  they  scrupulously  respected  the 
mince  pies,  and  only  broke  two  bottles  of 
oil  and  one  of  Harvey  sauce,  which  made 


their  mother  furious.  To  console  them, 
the  Laird  took  one  of  them  on  each  knee 
and  gave  them  of  his  share  of  plum-pud- 
ding and  many  other  unaccustomed  good 
things,  so  bad  for  their  little  French 
tumtums. 

The  genteel  Carnegie  had  never  been 
at  such  a  queer  scene  in  his  life.  It  opened 
his  mind — and  Dodor  and  Zouzou,  be- 
tween whom  he  sat  (the  Laird  thought  it 
would  do  him  good  to  sit  between  a  pri- 
vate soldier  and  a  humble  corporal), 
taught  him  more  French  than  he  had 
learnt  during  the  three  months  he  had 
spent  in  Paris.  It  was  a  specialty  of 
theirs.  It  was  more  colloquial  than  what 
is  generally  used  in  diplomatic  circles, 
and  stuck  longer  in  the  memory;  but  it 
hasn't  interfered  with  his  preferment  in 
the  Church. 

He  quite  unbent.  He  was  the  first  to 
volunteer  a  song  (without  being  asked) 
when  the  pipes  and  cigars  were  lit,  and 
after  the  usual  toasts  had  been  drunk — 
her  Majesty's  health,  Tennyson,  Thacke- 
ray, and  Dickens,  and  John  Leech. 

He  sang,  with  a  very  cracked  and  rath- 
er hiccupy  voice,  his  only  song  (it  seems) 
— an  English  one,  of  which  the  burden, 
he  explained,  was  French: 

"  Veeverler  veeverler  veeverler  vee 
Veeverler  companyee !" 

And  Zouzou  and  Dodor  complimented 
him  so  profusely  on  his  French  accent 
that  he  was  with  difficulty  prevented 
from  singing  it  all  over  again. 

Then  everybody  sang  in  rotation. 

The  Laird,  with  a  capital  barytone, 
sang 

"  Hie  diddle  Dee  for  the  Lowlands  low," 

which  was  encored. 

Little  Billee  sang  "Little  Billee." 
Vincent  sang 

"Old  Joe  kicking  np  behind  and  afore, 
And  the  yaller  gal  a-kicking  up  behind  old  Joe.'* 

A  capital  song,  with  words  of  quite  a  mas- 
terly scansion. 

Joe  Sibley  sang"Le  Sire  de  Framboi- 
sy."     Enthusiastic  encore. 

Lorrimer,  inspired  no  doubt  by  the  oc- 
casion, sang  the  "Hallelujah  Chorus,'* 
and  accompanied  himself  on  the  pianor 
but  failed  to  obtain  an  encore. 

Durien  sang: 

"PlaUir  d'amour  ne  dure  qu'un  moment; 
Chagrin  d'amour  dure  toute  la  vie.  . . ." 


724 


HARPERS    NEW    MONTHLY    MAGAZINE. 


It  was  his  favorite  song,  and  one  of  the 
beautiful  songs  of  the  world,  and  he  sang 
it  very  well — and  it  became  popular  in 
the  quartier  latin  ever  after. 

The  Greek  couldn't  sing,  and  very 
wisely  didn't. 

Zouzou  sang  capitally  a  capital  song  in 
praise  of  "le  vin  a  quat'  sous!" 

Taffy,  in  a  voice  like  a  high  wind  (and 
with  a  very  good  imitation  of  the  York- 
shire brogue),  sang  a  Somersetshire  hunt- 
ing-ditty, ending: 

"  Of  this  'ere   song   should  I  be  axed  the  reason 
for  to  show, 
I  don't  exactly  know,  I  don't  exactly  know ! 
But  all  my  fancy  dwells  upon  Nancy, 
And  I  sing  Tally-ho !" 

It  is  a  quite  superexcellent  ditty,  and 
haunts  my  memory  to  this  day;  and  one 
felt  sure  that  Nancy  was  a  dear  and  a 


A   DUCAL   FRENCH    FIGHTING-COCK. 


sweet,  wherever  she  lived,  and  when.  So 
Taffy  was  encored  twice — once  for  her 
sake,  once  for  his  own. 

And  finally,  to  the  surprise  of  all,  the 
bold  dragoon  sang  (in  English)  "My  sis- 
ter dear,"  out  of  Masaniello,  with  such 
pathos,  and  in  a  voice  so  sweet  and  high 
and  well  in  tune,  that  his  audience  felt 
almost  weepy  in  the  midst  of  their  jolli- 
fication, and  grew  quite  sentimental,  as 
Englishmen  abroad  are  apt  to  do  when 
they  are  rather  tipsy  and  bear  pretty  mu- 
sic, and  think  of  their  dear  sisters  across 
the  sea,  or  their  friends'  dear  sisters. 

Madame  Vinard  interrupted  her  Christ- 
mas dinner  on  the  model-throne  to  listen, 


and  wept  and  wiped  her  eyes  quite  open- 
ly, and  remarked  to  Madame  Boisse,  who 
stood  modestly  close  by:  "II  est  gentil 
tout  plein,  ce  dragon  !  Mon  Dieu!  comme 
il  chante  bien !  II  est  Angliche  aussi,  il 
parait.  lis  sont  joliment  bien  eleves,  tous 
ces  Angliches — tous  plus  gentils  les  uns 
que  les  autres!  et  quant  a  Monsieur  Li- 
trebili,  on  lui  donnerait  le  bon  Dieu  sans 
confession !" 

And  Madame  Boisse  agreed.    • 
Then  Svengali  and   Gecko  came,  and 
the  table  had  to  be  laid  and  decorated 
anew,  for  it  was  supper-time. 

Supper  was  even  jollier  than  dinner, 
which  had  taken  off  the  keen  edge  of  the 
appetites,  so    that    every    one    talked    at 
once — the  true  test  of  a  successful  sup- 
per—except when  J.  Sibley  told  some  of 
his  experiences  of  bohemia;  for  instance, 
how,  after  staying  at  home  all  day 
for  a  month  to  avoid  his  creditors, 
he  became  reckless  one  Sunday  morn- 
ing, and  went  to  the  Bains  Deligny, 
and  jumped  into  a  deep  part  by  mis- 
take, and  was  saved  from  a  watery 
grave  by  a  bold  swimmer,  who  turned 
out  to  be  his  boot-maker,  Satory,  to 
whom  he  owed  sixty  francs — of  all 
his    duns   the   one   he   dreaded   the 
most— and  who  didn't  let  him  go  in 
a  hurry. 

Whereupon  Svengali  remarked 
that  he  also  owed  sixty  francs  to 
Satory,  —  "Mais  comme  che  ne  me 
bai gne  chamais,  che  n'ai  rien  a 
craindre!" 

Whereupon  there  was  such  a  laugh 
that  Svengali  felt  he  had  scored  off 
Sibley  at  last  and  had  a  prettier  wit. 
He  flattered  himself  that  he'd  got  the 
laugh  of  Sibley  this  time. 

And  after  supper  Svengali  and 
Gecko  made  such  lovely  music  that  ev- 
erybody was  sobered  and  a  thirst  again, 
and  the  punch-bowl,  wreathed  with  holly 
and  mistletoe,  was  placed  in  the  middle 
of  the  table,  and  clean  glasses  set  all 
round  it. 

Then  Dodor  and  l'Zouzou  stood  up  to 
dance  with  Trilby  and  Madame  Angele, 
and  executed  a  series  of  cancan  steps, 
which,  though  they  were  so  inimitably 
droll  that  they  had  eacli  and  all  to  be  en- 
cored, were  such  that  not  one  of  them 
need  have  brought  the  blush  of  shame  to 
the  cheek  of  modesty. 

Then  the  Laird  danced  a  sword-dance 
over  two  T  squares  and  broke  them  both. 


TRILBY. 


725 


And  Taffy,  baring  his  mighty  arms  to  the 
admiring  gaze  of  all,  did  dumbbell  exer- 
cises, with  Little  Billee  for  a  dumbbell, 
and  all  but  dropped  him  into  the  punch- 
bowl; and  tried  to  cut  a  pewter  ladle  in 
two  with  Dodor's  sabre, and  sent  it  through 
the  window;  and  this  made  him  cross, 
so  that  he  abused  French  sabres,  and  said 
they  were  made  of  worse  pewter  than 
even  French  ladles;  and  the  Laird  sen- 
tentious! y  opined  that  they  managed 
these  things  better  in  England,  and  wink- 
ed at  Little  Billee. 

Then  they  played  at  "cock-fighting," 
with  their  wrists  tied  across  their  shins, 
and  a  broomstick  thrust  in  between ;  thus 
manacled,  you  are  placed  opposite  your 
antagonist,  and  try  to  upset  him  with 
your  feet,  and  he  you.  It  is  a  very  good 
game.  The  cuirassier  and  the  Zouave 
playing  at  this  got  so  angry,  and  were  so 
irresistibly  droll  a  sight,  that  the  shouts 
of  laughter  could  be  heard  on  the  other 
side  of  the  river,  so  that  a  sergent  de 
ville  came  in  and  civilly  requested  them 
not  to  make  so  much  noise.  They  were 
disturbing  the  whole  quartier,  he  said, 
and  there  was  quite  a  "  rassemblement " 
outside.  So  they  made  him  tipsy,  and 
also  another  policeman,  who  came  to  look 
after  his  comrade,  and  yet  another;  and 
these  guardians  of  the  peace  of  Paris 
were  trussed  and  made  to  play  at  cock- 
fighting,  and  were  still  droller  than  the 
two  soldiers,  and  laughed  louder  and 
made  more  noise  than  any  one  else,  so 
that  Madame  Vinard  had  to  remonstrate 
with  them,  till  they  got  too  tipsy  to  speak, 
and  fell  fast  asleep,  and  were  laid  next  to 
each  other  behind  the  stove. 

The  fin  de  siecle  reader,  disgusted  at  the 
thought  of  such  an  orgy  as  I  have  been 
trying  to  describe,  must  remember  that  it 
happened  in  the  fifties,  when  men  calling 
themselves  gentlemen,  and  being  called 
so,  still  wrenched  off  door-knockers  and 
came  back  drunk  from  the  Derby,  and 
even  drank  too  much  after  dinner  before 
joining  the  ladies,  as  is  all  duly  chroni- 
cled and  set  down  in  John  Leech's  im- 
mortal pictures  of  life  and  character  out 
of  Punch. 

Then  M.  and  Madame  Vinard  and  Tril- 
by and  Angele  Boisse  bade  the  company 
good-night,  Trilby  being  the  last  of  them 
to  leave. 

Little  Billee  took  her  to  the  top  of  the 
staircase,  and  there  he  said  to  her : 

Vol.  LXXXVIII.— No.  527.-69 


"answer  me,  trilby!'' 


"Trilby,  I  have  asked  you  nineteen 
times,  and  you  have  refused.  Trilby, 
once  more,  on  Christmas  nighty  for  the 
twentieth  time — will  you  marry  me?  If 
not,  I  leave  Paris  to-morrow  morning, 
and  never  come  back.  I  swear  it  on  my 
word  of  honor!" 

Trilby  turned  very  pale,  and  leant  her 
back  against  the  wall,  and  covered  her 
face  with  her  hands. 

Little  Billee  pulled  them  away. 

"Answer  me,  Trilby!" 

"God  forgive  me,  yes!"  said  Trilby, 
and  she  ran  down  stairs,  weeping. 

It  was  now  very  late. 

It  soon  became  evident  that  Little  Bil- 
lee was  in  extraordinary  high  spirits — in 
an  abnormal  state  of  excitement. 

He  challenged  Svengali  to  spar,  and 
made  his  nose  bleed,  and  frightened  him 
out  of  his  sardonic  wits.  He  performed 
wonderful  and  quite  unsuspected  feats  of 
strength.  He  swore  eternal  friendship 
to   Dodor  and   Zouzou,  and    filled    their 


726 


HARPER'S    NEW    MONTHLY    MAGAZINE. 


quite  thrown  away  on 
Zouzou  !  "No  man 
ever  had  such  dear, 
dear  frenge!  no  man 
ever  was  s'happy !" 

After  sitting  for  a 
while  in  love  and  ami- 
ty, they  managed  to  get 
up  on  their  feet  again, 
each  helping  the  oth- 
er ;  and  in  some  never- 
to-be-remembered  way 
they  reached  the  Hotel 
Corneille. 

There  they  sat  Little 
Billee  on  the  door-step 
and  rang  the  bell,  and 
seeing  some  one  com- 
ing up  the  Place  de 
l'Odeon,  and  fearing* 
he  might  be  a  ser- 
gent  de  ville,  they 
bid  Little  Billee  a 
most  affectionate  but 
hasty  farewell,  kissing 
him  on  both  cheeks 
in  French  fashion, 
and  contrived  to  get 
themselves  round  the 
corner  and  out  of 
sight. 

glasses  again  and  again,  and  also  (in  his         Little    Billee    tried    to    sing   Zouzou's 

innocence)  his  own,  and  trinqued  with     drinking  song: 

them  many  times  running.     They  were 


LES   GLOUGLOUX    DU    VIN   A   QUAT    SOUS. 


the  last  to  leave  (except  the  three  helpless 
policemen);  and  at  about  five  or  six  in 
the  morning,  to  his  surprise,  he  found 
himself  walking  between  Dodor  and  Zou- 
zou by  the  late  windy  moonlight  in  the  it  was  no  sergent  de  ville,  but  Ribot,  just 
Rue  Vieille  des  mauvais  Ladres,  now  on  back  from  a  Christmas  tree  and  a  little 
one  side  of  the  frozen  gutter,  now  on  the     family  dance  at  his  aunt's,  Madame  Kolb 


"Quoi  de  plus  doux 
Que  les  glougloux — 
Les  glougloux  du  vin  k  quat'  sous " 

The  stranger  came  up.     Fortunately, 


other,  now  in  the  middle  of  it,  stopping 
them  now  and  then  to  tell  them  how 
jolly  they  were  and  how  dearly  he  loved 
them. 

Presently  his  hat  flew  away,  and  went 
rolling  and  skipping  and  bounding  up 


(the  Alsacian  banker's  wife,  in  the  Rue  de 
la  Chaussee  d'Antin). 

Next  morning  poor  Little  Billee  was 
dreadfully  ill. 

He  had  passed  a  terrible  night.  His 
bed  had  heaved  like  the  ocean,  with  oce- 


the   narrow    street,  and  they  discovered  anic  results.     He  had  forgotten  to  put 

that  as  soon  as  they  let  each  other  go  to  out  his  candle,  but  fortunately  Ribot  had 

run  after  it,  they  all  three  sat  down.  blown  it  out  for  him,  after  putting  him 

So  Dodor  and  Little  Billee  remained  to  bed  and   tucking  him  up  like  a  real 

sitting,  with  their  arms  round  each  other's  good  Samaritan. 

necks  and  their  feet  in  the  gutter,  while  And  next  morning,  when  Madame  Paul 
Zouzou  went  after  the  hat  on  all  fours,  brought  him  a  cup  of  tisane  de  chiendent 
and  caught  it,  and  brought  it  back  in  his  (which  does  not  happen  to  mean  a  hair 
mouth  like  a  tipsy  retriever.  Little  Billee  of  the  dog  that  bit  him),  she  was  kind, 
wept  for  sheer  love  and  gratitude,  and  but  very  severe  on  the  dangers  and  dis- 
eased him  a  c&ryhat'ide  (in  English),  and  grace  of  intoxication,  and  talked  to  him 
laughed  loudly  at  his  own  wit,  which  was  like  a  mother. 


TRILBY. 


727 


"If  it  liad  not  been  for  kind  Monsieur 
Bibot"  (she  told  him),  "the  door-step 
would  have  been  his  portion ;  and  who 
could  say  he  didn't  deserve  it?  And 
then  think  of  the  dangers  of  fire  from 
a  tipsy  man  all  alone  in  a  small  bed- 
room with  chintz  curtains  and  a  lighted 
candle!1' 

"Ribot  was  kind  enough  to  blow  out 
my  candle,"  said  Little  Billee,  humbly. 

"  Ah,  Dame!"  said  Madame  Paul,  with 
much  meaning — "au  moins  il  Siboncoeur, 
Monsieur  Ribot!" 

And  the  crudest  sting  of  all  was  when 
the  good-natured  and  incorrigibly  festive 
Ribot  came  and  sat  by  his  bedside,  and 
wTas  kind  and  tenderly  sympathetic,  and 
got  him  a  pick-me-up  from  the  chemist's 
(unbeknown  to  Madame  Paul). 

"Credieu!  vous  vous  etes  cranement 
bien  amuse,  hier  soir!  quelle  bosse,  hein  ! 
je  parie  que  c'etait  plus  drole  que  chez  ma 
tanteKolb!" 

All  of  which,  of  course,  it  is  unneces- 
sary to  translate ;  except  perhaps  the  WQrd 
"bosse,"  which  stands  for  M  noce,"  which 
stands  for  a  "jolly  good  spree." 

In  all  his  innocent  little  life  Little 
Billee  had  never  dreamt  of  such  humili- 
ation as  this — such  ignominious  depths 
of  shame  and  misery  and  remorse!  He 
did  not  care  to  live.  He  had  but  one 
longing:  that  Trilby,  dear  Trilby,  kind 
Trilby,  would  come  and  pillow  his  head 
on  her  beautiful  white  English  bosom, 
and  lay  her  soft  cool  tender  hand  on  his 
aching  brow,  and  there  let  him  go  to 
sleep,  and  sleep- 
ing, die! 

He  slept  and 
slept, with  no  bet- 
ter rest  for  his 
aching  brow  than 
the  pillow  of  his 
bed  in  the  Ho- 
tel Corneille,  and 
failed  to  die  this 
time.  And  when, 
after  some  forty- 
eight  hours  or  so, 
he  had  quite  slept 
off  the  fumes  of 
that  memorable 
Christmas  de- 
bauch, he  found 
that  a  sad  thing 
had  happened 
to  him,  and  a 
strange! 


It  was  as  though  a  tarnishing  breath 
had  swept  over  the  reminiscent  mirror  of 
his  mind  and  left  a  little  film  behind  it, 
so  that  no  past  thing  he  wished  to  see 
therein  was  reflected  with  quite  the  old 
pristine  clearness.  As  though  the  keen 
quick  razorlike  edge  of  his  power  to  reach 
and  re-evoke  the  by -gone  charm  and  gla- 
mour and  essence  of  things  had  been 
blunted  and  coarsened.  As  though  the 
bloom  of  that  special  joy,  the  gift  he  un- 
consciously had  of  recalling  past  emotions 
and  sensations  and  situations,  and  mak- 
ing them  actual  once  more  by  a  mere 
effort  of  the  will,  had  been  brushed  away. 

And  he  never  recovered  the  full  use  of 
that  most  precious  faculty,  the  boon  of 
youth  and  happy  childhood,  and  which 
lie  had  once  possessed,  without  knowing 
it,  in  such  singular  and  exceptional  com- 
pleteness. He  was  to  lose  other  precious 
faculties  of  his  over -rich  and  complex 
nature  —  to  be  pruned  and  clipped  and 
thinned — that  his  one  supreme  faculty  of 
painting  might  have  elbow-room  to  reach 
its  fullest,  or  else  you  could  never  have 
seen  the  wood  for  the  trees  (or  vice  versa — 
which  is  it?). 

On  New- Year's  day  Taffy  and  the  Laird 
were  at  their  work  in  the  studio,  when 
there  was  a  knock  at  the  door,  and  Mon- 
sieur Vinard,  cap  in  hand,  respectfully 
introduced  a  pair  of  visitors,  an  English 
lady  and  gentleman. 

The  gentleman  was  a  clergyman,  small, 
thin,  round-shouldered,  with  a  long  neck; 

weak-eyed,  and  dryly  polite. 

The  lady  was  middle-aged, 

though  still  young-looking; 

very  pretty,  with  gray  hair; 


A   CARYHATIDE. 


728 


HARPER'S    NEW    MONTHLY   MAGAZINE. 


very  well  dressed;  very  small,  full  of 
nervous  energy,  with  tiny  hands  and  feet. 
It  was  Little  Billee?s  mother;  and  the  cler- 
gyman, the  Rev.  Thomas  Bagot,  was  her 
brother-in-law. 

Their  faces  were  full  of  trouble  —  so 
much  so  that  the  two  painters  did  not 
even  apologize  for  the  carelessness  of 
their  attire,  or  for  the  odor  of  tobacco 
that  filled  the  room.  Little  Billee's  mo- 
ther recognized  the  two  painters  at  a 
glance,  from  the  sketches  and  descrip- 
tions of  which  her  son's  letters  were  al- 
ways full. 

They  all  sat  down. 

After  a  moment's  embarrassed  silence, 
Mrs.  Bagot  exclaimed,  addressing  Taffy: 
"Mr.  Wynne,  we  are  in  terrible  distress 
of  mind.  I  don't  know  if  my  son  has 
told  you,  but  on  Christmas  day  he  en- 
gaged himself  to  be  married!" 

"To— be — married /"  exclaimed  Taffy 
and  the  Laird,  for  whom  this  was  news 
indeed. 

"  Yes— to  be  married  to  a  Miss  Trilby 
O'Ferrall,  who,  from  what  he  implies,  is 
in  quite  a  different  position  in  life  to 
himself.  Do  you  know  the  lady,  Mr. 
Wynne  ?" 

"Oh  yes!  I  know  her  very  well  in- 
deed; we  all  know  her." 

"Is  she  English?" 

"She's  an  English  subject,  I  believe." 

"Is  she  a  Protestant  or  a  Roman  Cath- 
olic?" inquired  the  clergyman. 

"A — a — upon  my  word,  I  really  don't 
know!" 

"You  know  her  very  well  indeed,  and 
you  don't — know — that,  Mr.  Wynne!"  ex- 
claimed Mr.  Bagot. 

"Is  she  a  lady,  Mr.  Wynne?"  asked 
Mrs.  Bagot,  somewhat  impatiently,  as  if 
that  were  a  much  more  important  mat- 
ter. 

By  this  time  the  Laird  had  managed  to 
basely  desert  his  friend ;  had  got  himself 
into  his  bedroom,  and  from  thence,  by 
another  door,  into  the  street  and  away. 

"A  lady?"  said  Taffy;  "a — it  so  much 
depends  upon  what  that  word  exactly 
means,  you  know;  things  are  so — a— so 
different  here.  Her  father  was  a  gentle- 
man, I  believe— a  fellow  of  Trinity,  Cam- 
bridge— and  a  clergyman,  if  that  means 
anything!  ...  he  was  unfortunate  and 
all  that — a — intemperate,  I  fear,  and  not 
successful  in  life.  He  has  been  dead  six 
or  seven  years." 

"And  her  mother?" 


"I  really  know  very  little  about  her 
mother,  except  that  she  was  very  hand- 
some, I  believe,  and  of  inferior  social 
rank  to  her  husband.  She's  also  dead; 
she  died  soon  after  him." 

"What  is  the  young  lady,  then?  An 
English  governess,  or  something  of  that 
sort?" 

"  Oh,  no,  no — a — nothing  of  that  sort," 
said  Taffy  (and  inwardly,  "You  coward 
— you  cad  of  a  Scotch  thief  of  a  sneak  of 
a  Laird — to  leave  all  this  to  me!"). 

"What?  Has  she  independent  means 
of  her  own,  then?" 

"A — not  that  I  know  of;  I  should  even 
say,  decidedly  not!" 

"What  is  she,  then?  She's  at  least  re- 
spectable, I  hope!" 

"At  present  she's  a — a  blanchisseuse  de 
fin — that  is  considered  respectable  here." 

"Why,  that's  a  washer-woman,  isn't 
it?" 

"Well — rather  better  than  that,  per- 
haps—de  fin,  you  know ! — things  are  so 
different  in  Paris!  I  don't  think  you'd 
say  she  was  very  much  like  a  washer- wo- 
man— to  look  at!" 

"  Is  she  so  good-looking,  then?" 

"Oh  yes;  extremely  so.  You  may 
well  say  that — very  beautiful,  indeed — 
about  that,  at  least,  there  is  no  doubt 
whatever!" 

"And  of  unblemished  character?" 

Taffy,  red  and  perspiring  as  if  he  were 
going  through  his  Indian-club  exercise, 
was  silent — and  his  face  expressed  a  mis- 
erable perplexity.  But  nothing  could 
equal  the  anxious  misery  of  those  two 
maternal  eyes,  so  wistfully  fixed  on  his. 

After  some  seconds  of  a  most  painful 
stillness,  the  lady  said,  "Can't  you — oh, 
can't  you  give  me  an  answer,  Mr. 
Wynne?" 

"Oh,  Mrs.  Bagot,  you  have  placed  me 
in  a  terrible  position !  I — I  love  your 
son  just  as  if  he  were  my  own  brother! 
This  engagement  is  a  complete  surprise 
to  me — a  most  painful  surprise!  I'd 
thought  of  many  possible  things,  but 
never  of  that!  I  cannot— I  really  must 
not  conceal  from  you  that  it  would  be 
an  unfortunate  marriage  for  your  son — 
from  a — a  worldly  point  of  view, you  know 
— although  both  I  and  McAllister  have  a 
very  deep  and  warm  regard  for  poor 
Trilby  O'Ferrall — indeed,  a  great  admira- 
tion and  affection  and  respect!  She  was 
once  a  model." 

"  A  model,  Mr.  Wynne?     What  sort  of 


TRILBY. 


729 


model — there  are  models  and  models,  of 
course." 

"  Well,  a  model  of  every  sort,  in  every 
possible  sense  of  the  word — head,  hands, 
feet,  everything!" 

"A  model  for  the  figure  ?" 

"Well-yes!" 

"Oh, my  God! 
my  God  !  my 
God !"  cried  Mrs. 
Bagot —  and  she 
got  up  and 
walked  up  and 
down  the  studio 
in  a  most  terri- 
ble state  of  agita- 
tion, her  brother- 
in-law  following 
her  and  begging 
her  to  control 
herself.  Her  ex- 
clamations seem- 
ed to  shock  him, 
and  she  didn't 
seem  to  care. 

"  Oh  !  Mr. 
Wynne  !  —  Mr. 
Wynne!  If  you 
only  knew  what 
my  son  is  to  me 
— to  all  of  us — 
always  has  been ! 
He  has  been  with 
us  all  his  life, 
till  he  came  to 
this  wicked,  ac- 
cursed city!    My 

poor  husband  would  never  hear  of  his 
going  to  any  school,  for  fear  of  all  the 
harm  he  might  learn  there.  My  son  was 
as  innocent  and  pure-minded  as  any  girl, 
Mr.  Wynne — I  could  have  trusted  him 
anywhere — and  that's  why  I  gave  way 
and  allowed  him  to  come  here,  of  all 
places  in  the  world— all  alone.  Oh!  I 
should  have  come  with  him!  Fool — 
fool — fool  that  I  was ! .  .  .  . 

"Oh,  Mr.  Wynne,  he  won't  see  either 
his  mother  or  his  uncle !  I  found  a  letter 
from  him  at  the  hotel,  saying  he'd  left 
Paris — and  I  don't  even  know  where  he's 
gone ! .  .  .  .  Can't  you,  can't  Mr.  McAllister, 
do  anything  to  avert  this  miserable  dis- 
aster? You  don't  know  how  he  loves  you 
both — you  should  see  his  letters  to  me 
and  to  his  sister!  they  are  always  full  of 
you !" 

"  Indeed,  Mrs.  Bagot — you  can  count 
onMcAllister  and  me  for  doing  everything 


in  our  power!  But  it  is  of  no  use  our 
trying  to  influence  your  son — I  feel  quite 
sure  of  that!  It  is  to  her  we  must  make 
our  appeal." 

"  Oh,  Mr.  Wynne !  to  a  washer- woman — 
a  figure  model — and  Heaven  knows  what 
besides!  and  with  such  a  chance  as  this!" 


A    MODEL,  MR.  WYNNE?' 


' '  Mrs.  Bagot,  you  don't  know  her !  She 
may  have  been  all  that.  But,  strange  as 
it  may  seem  to  you — and  seems  to  me,  for 
that  matter  —  she's  a — she's  —  upon  my 
word  of  honor,  I  really  think  she's  about 
the  best  woman  I  ever  met — the  most  un- 
selfish— the  most — " 

"Ah!  She's  a  beautiful  woman  —  I 
can  well  see  that  I" 

"  She  has  a  beautiful  nature,  Mrs.  Bagot 
— you  may  believe  me  or  not,  as  you  like 
— and  it  is  to  that  I  shall  make  my  appeal, 
as  your  son's  friend,  who  has  his  interests 
at  heart.  And  let  me  tell  you  that  deep- 
ly as  I  grieve  for  you  in  your  present  dis- 
tress, my  grief  and  concern  for  her  are 
far  greater!" 

"What!  grief  for  her  if  she  marries 
my  son !" 

"No,  indeed  —  but  if  she  refuses  to 
marry  him.  She  may  not  do  so,  of  course 
— but  my  instinct  tells  me  she  will !" 


730 


HARPER'S   NEW    MONTHLY   MAGAZINE. 


"Oh!  Mr.  Wynne,  is  that  likely ?" 
"  I  will  do  my  best  to  make  it  so— with 
such  an  utter  trust  in  her  unselfish  good- 
ness of  heart  and  her  passionate  affection 
for  your  son  as — " 

i  How  do  you  know  she  has  all  this 
passionate  affection  for  him?" 

"Oh,  McAllister  and  I  have  long 
guessed  it — though  we  never  thought  this 
particular  thing  would  come  of  it.  I 
think,  perhaps,  that  first  of  all  you  ought 
to  see  her  yourself — you  would  get  quite 
a  new  idea  of  what  she  really  is — you 
would  be  surprised,  I  assure  you." 

Mrs.  Wynne  shrugged  her  shoulders 
impatiently,  and  there  was  silence  for  a 
minute  or  two. 

And  then,  just  as  in  a  play,  Trilby's 
"Milk  below!"  was  sounded  at  the  door, 
and  Trilby  came  into  the  little  ante- 
chamber, and  seeing  strangers,  was  about 
to  turn  back.  She  was  dressed  as  a  gri- 
sette,  in  her  Sunday  gown  and  pretty 
white  cap  (for  it  was  New- Year's  day), 
and  looking  her  very  best. 

Taffy  called  out,  "  Come  in,  Trilby !" 

And  Trilby  came  into  the  studio. 

As  soon  as  she  saw  Mrs.  Bagot's  face 
she  stopped  short  —  erect,  her  shoulders 
a  little  high,  her  mouth  a  little  open,  her 
eyes  wide  wTith  fright — and  pale  to  the 
lips — a  pathetic,  yet  commanding,  mag- 
nificent, and  most  distinguished  appari- 
tion, in  spite  of  her  humble  attire. 

The  little  lady  got  up  and  walked 
straight  to  her,  and  looked  up  into  her 
face,  that  seemed  to  tower  so.  Trilby 
breathed  hard. 

At  length  Mrs.  Bagot  said,  in  her  high 
accents,  "  You  are  Miss  Trilby  O'Ferrall?" 

"Oh  yes— yes— I  am  Trilby  O'Ferrall; 
and  you  are  Mrs.  Bagot;  I  can  see  that!" 

A  new  tone  had  come  into  her  large 
deep  soft  voice,  so  tragic,  so  touching,  so 
strangely  in  accord  with  her% whole  as- 
pect just  then  —  so  strangely  in  accord 
with  the  whole  situation — that  Taffy  felt 
his  cheeks  and  lips  go  cold,  and  his  big 
spine  thrill  and  tickle  all  down  his  back. 

"Oh  yes;  you  are  very,  very  beauti- 
ful— there's  no  doubt  about  that!  You 
wish  to  marry  my  son?" 

"I've  refused  to  marry  him  nineteen 
times — for  his  own  sake;  he  will  tell  you 
so  himself.  I  am  not  the  right  person 
for  him  to  marry.  I  know  that.  On 
Christmas  night  he  asked  me  for  the 
twentieth  time;  he  swore  he  would  leave 
Paris  next  day  forever  if  I  refused  him. 


I  hadn't  the  courage.  I  was  weak,  you 
see!     It  was  a  dreadful  mistake." 

"  Are  you  so  fond  of  him?" 

"Fond  of  him?     Aren't  you  ?" 

"I'm  his  mother,  my  good  girl!" 

To  this  Trilby  seemed  to  have  nothing 
to  say. 

"You  have  just  said  yourself  you  are 
not  a  fit  wife  for  him.  If  you  are  so 
fond  of  him,  will  you  ruin  him  by  mar- 
rying him ;  drag  him  down  ;  prevent  him 
from  getting  on  in  life  ;  separate  him 
from  his  sister,  his  family,  his  friends?" 

Trilby  turned  her  miserable  eyes  to 
Taffy's  miserable  face,  and  said,  "Will  it 
really  be  all  that,  Taffy?" 

"  Oh,  Trilby,  things  have  got  all  wrong, 
and  can't  be  righted!  I'm  afraid  it  might 
be  so.  Dear  Trilby — I  can't  tell  you  what 
I  feel  —  but  I  can't  tell  you  lies,  you 
know !" 

"  Oh  no— Taffy— you  don't  tell  lies!" 

Then  Trilby  began  to  tremble  very 
much,  and  Taffy  tried  to  make  her  sit 
down,  but  she  wouldn't.  Mrs.  Bagot 
looked  up  into  her  face,  herself  breathless 
with  keen  suspense  and  cruel  anxiety — 
almost  imploring. 

Trilby  looked  down  at  Mrs.  Bagot  very 
kindly,  put  out  her  shaking  hand,  and 
said:  "  Good-by,  Mrs.  Bagot.  I  will  not 
marry  your  son.  I  promise  you.  I  will 
never  see  him  again." 

Mrs.  Bagot  caught  and  clasped  her  hand 
and  tried  to  kiss  it,  and  said:  "Don't  go 
yet,  my  dear  good  girl.  I  want  to  talk 
to  you.  I  want  to  tell  you  how  deeply 
I—" 

"Good-by,  Mrs.  Bagot,"  said  Trilby, 
once  more;  and  disengaging  her  hand, 
she  walked  swiftly  out  of  the  room. 

Mrs.  Bagot  seemed  stupefied,  and  only 
half  content  with  her  quick  triumph. 

"She  will  not  marry  your  son,  Mrs. 
Bagot.  I  only  wish  to  God  she'd  marry 
me  /" 

"Oh,  Mr.  Wynne!"  said  Mrs.  Bagot, 
and  burst  into  tears. 

"Ah!"  exclaimed  the  clergyman,  with 
a  feebly  satirical  smile  and  a  little  cough 
and  sniff  that  were  not  sympathetic, 
"now  if  that  could  be  arranged — and 
I've  no  doubt  there  wouldn't  be  much 
opposition  on  the  part  of  the  lady  "  (here 
he  made  a  little  complimentary  bow), 
"it  would  be  a  very  desirable  tiling  all 
round!" 

"It's  tremendously  good  of  you,  I'm 
sure— to  interest  yourself  in  my  humble 


TRILBY. 


731 


affairs,"  said  Taffy. 
"  Look  here,  sir — 
I'm  not  a  great  gen- 
ius like  your  neph- 
ew— and  it  doesn't 
much  matter  to 
any  one  but  myself 
what  I  make  of  my 
life — but  I  can  as- 
sure you  tli at  if 
Trilby's  heart  were 
set  on  me  as  it  is 
on  him,  I  would 
gladly  cast  in  my 
lot  with  hers  for 
life.  She's  one  in 
a  thousand.  She's 
the  one  sinner 
that  repenteth,  you 
know!" 

"Ah,  yes — to  be 
sure! — to  be  sure! 
I  know  all  about 
that;  still,  facts  are 
facts,  and  the  world 
is  the  world,  and 
we've  got  to  live 
in  it,"  said  Mr. 
Bagot,  whose  satir- 
ical smile  had  died  away  under  the  gleam 
of  Taffy's  choleric  blue  eye. 

Then  said  the  good  Taffy,  frowning 
down  on  the  parson  (who  looked  mean 
and  foolish,  as  people  can  sometimes  do 
even  with  right  on  their  side):  "And 
now,  Mr.  Bagot— I  can't  tell  you  how  very 
keenly  I  have  suffered  during  this — a — 
this  most  painful  interview — on  account 
of  my  very  deep  regard  for  Trilby  O'Fer- 
rall.  I  congratulate  you  and  your  sister- 
in-law  on  its  complete  success.  I  also 
feel  very  deeply  for  your  nephew.  I'm 
not  sure  that  he  has  not  lost  more  than 
he  will  gain  by — a — by  the — a — the  suc- 
cess of  this— a— this  interview,  in  short!" 

Taffy's  eloquence  was  exhausted,  and 
his  quick  temper  was  getting  the  better 
of  him. 

Then  Mrs.  Bagot,  drying  her  eyes, 
came  and  took  his  hand  in  a  very  charm- 
ing and  simple  manner,  and  said:  "Mr. 
Wynne,  I  think  I  know  what  you  are 
feeling  just  now.  You  must  try  and 
make  some  allowance  for  us.  You  will, 
I  am  sure,  when  we  are  gone,  and  you 
have  had  time  to  think  a  little.  As  for 
that  noble  and  beautiful  girl,  I  only  wish 
that  she  were  such  that  my  son  could 
marry  her — in  her  past  life,  I  mean.     It 


FOND   OF  HIM?      AREN'T   YOU?' 


is  not  her  humble  rank  that  would  fright- 
en me;  pray  believe  that  I  am  quite  sin- 
cere in  this — and  don't  think  too  hardly 
of  your  friend's  mother.  Think  of  all 
I  shall  have  to  go  through  with  my 
poor  son — who  is  deeply  in  love — and  no 
wonder!  and  who  has  won  the  love  of 
such  a  woman  as  that!  and  who  cannot 
see  at  present  how  fatal  to  him  such  a 
marriage  would  be.  I  can  see  all  the 
charm  and  believe  in  all  the  goodness,  in 
spite  of  all.  And,  oh,  how  beautiful  she 
is,  and  what  a  voice!  All  that  counts 
for  so  much,  doesn't  it?  I  cannot  tell 
you  how  I  grieve  for  her.  I  can  make 
no  amends — who  could,  for  such  a  thing? 
There  are  no  amends,  and  I  shall  not 
even  try.  I  will  only  write  and  tell  her 
all  I  think  and  feel.  You  will  forgive 
us,  won't  you  ?" 

And  in  the  quick,  impulsive  warmth 
and  grace  and  sincerity  of  her  manner  as 
she  said  all  this,  Mrs.  Bagot  was  so  ab- 
surdly like  Little  Billee  that  it  touched 
big  Taffy's  heart,  and  he  would  have  for- 
given anything,  and  there  was  nothing 
to  forgive. 

"Oh,  Mrs.  Bagot,  there's  no  question 
of  forgiveness.  Good  heavens!  it  is  all 
so  unfortunate,  you  know!     Nobody's  to 


732 


HARPER'S    NEW    MONTHLY    MAGAZINE. 


blame,  that  I  can  see.  Good-by,  Mrs. 
Bagot;  good-by,  sir,"  and  so  saying,  he 
saw  them  down  to  their  "remise,"  in 
which  sat  a  singularly  pretty  young  lady 
of  seventeen  or  so,  pale  and  anxious,  and 
so  like  Little  Billee  that  it  was  quite  fun- 
ny, and  touched  big  Taffy's  heart  again. 


4 


"  SO   LIKE    LITTLE   BILLEE. 


When  Trilby  went  out  into  the  court- 
yard in  the  Place  St.-Anatole  des  Arts, 
she  saw  Miss  Bagot  looking  out  of  the 
carriage  window,  and  in  the  young  lady's 
face,  as  she  caught  her  eye,  an  expression 
of  sweet  surprise  and  sympathetic  admi- 
ration, with  lifted  eyebrows  and  parted 
lips— just  such  a  look  as  she  bad  often 
got  from  Little  Billee !  She  knew  her  for 
his  sister  at  once.     It  was  a  sbarp  pang. 

She  turned  away,  saying  to  herself: 
"Oh  no;  I  will  not  separate  him  from 
his  sister,  his  family,  his  friends!  That 
would  never  do!  That's  settled,  any- 
how!" 

Feeling  a  little  dazed,  and  wishing  to 
think,  sbe  turned  up  tbe  Rue  Vieille  des 
mauvais  Ladres,  which  was  always  de- 
serted at  this  hour.  It  was  empty,  but 
for  a  solitary  figure  sitting  on  a  post, 
with  its  legs  dangling,  its  hands  in  its 
trouser  pockets,  an  inverted  pipe  in  its 
mouth,  a  tattered  straw  hat  on  the  back 
of  its  head,  and  a  long  gray  coat  down 
to  its  heels.     It  was  the  Laird. 

As  soon  as  he  saw  her  he  jumped  off 
his  post  and  came  to  her,  saying:  "Oh, 
Trilby— what's  it  all  about?  I  couldn't 
stand  it!  I  ran  away!  Little  Billee's 
mother's  there !" 

"Yes,  Sandy  dear,  I've  just  seen  her." 


"Well,  what's  up?" 
"I've  promised  her  never  to  see  Little 
Billee  any  more.     I  was  foolish  enough 
to    promise   to    marry  him.       I    refused 
many  times  these  last  three  months,  and 
then  he  said  he'd  leave  Paris  and  never 
come  back,  and  so,  like  a  fool,  I  gave 
way.     I've  offered  to  live 
with  him  and  take  care 
of  him   and  be  his  ser- 
vant— to   be    everything 
he  wished  but  his  wife! 
But  he  wouldn't  hear  of 
it.     Dear,  dear  Little  Bil- 
lee! he's  an  angel — and 
I'll   take    precious   good 
care  no  harm  shall  ever 
come  to  him  through  me ! 
I  shall  leave  this  hateful 
place  and  go  and  live  in 
the   country:    I   suppose 
I   must   manage    to    get 
through    life    somehow. 
I  know  of  some  poor  peo- 
ple who  were  once  very 
fond  of  me,  and  I  could 
live  with  them  and  help 
them  and   keep  myself. 
The  difficulty  is  about  Jeannot.    I  thought 
it  all  out  before  it  came  to  this.     I  was 
well  prepared,  you  see." 

She  smiled  in  a  forlorn  sort  of  way, 
with  her  upper  lip  drawn  tight  against 
her  teeth,  as  if  some  one  were  pulling  her 
back  by  the  lobes  of  her  ears. 

"Oh!  but  Trilby  — what  shall  we  do 
without  you?  Taffy  and  I,  you  know! 
You've  become  one  of  us!" 

"Now  how  good  and  kind  of  you  to 
say  that !"  exclaimed  poor  Trilby,  her  eyes 
filling.  "Why,  that's  just  all  I  lived  for, 
till  all  this  happened.  But  it  can't  be 
any  more  now,  can  it?  Everything  is 
changed  for  me — the  very  sky  seems  dif- 
ferent. Ah  !  Durien's  little  song — 'Plaisir 
dT  amour— chagrin  d  amour  I  it's  all  quite 
true,  isn't  it!  I  shall  start  immediately, 
and  take  Jeannot  with  me,  I  think." 
"But  where  do  you  think  of  going?" 
"Ah!  I  mayn't  tell  you  that,  Sandy 
dear — not  for  a  long  time!  Think  of  all 
the  trouble  there'd  be—  Well,  there's 
no  time  to  be  lost.  I  must  take  the  bull 
by  the  horns." 

She  tried  to  laugh,  and  took  him  by  his 
big  side  whiskers  and  kissed  him  on  the 
eyes  and  mouth,  and  her  tears  fell  on  his 
face. 

Then,  feeling  unable  to  speak,  she  nod- 


TRILBY. 


733 


ded  farewell,  and  walked  quickly  up  the 
narrow  winding  street.  When  she  came 
to  the  first  bend  she  turned  round  and 
waved  her  hand,  and  kissed  it  two  or 
three  times,  and  then  disappeared. 

The  Laird  stared  for  several  minutes 
up  the  empty  thoroughfare— wretched, 
full  of  sorrow  and  compassion.  Then  he 
filled  himself  another  pipe  and  lit  it,  and 
hitched  himself  on  to  another  post,  and  sat 
there  dangling  his  legs  and  kicking  his 
heels,  and  waited  for  the  Bagots'  cab  to 
depart,  that  he  might  go  up  and  face  the 
righteous  wrath  of  Taffy  like  a  man,  and 
bear  up  against  his  bitter  reproaches  for 
cowardice  and  desertion  before  the  foe. 

Next  morning  Taffy  received  two  let- 
ters: one,  a  very  long  one,  was  from  Mrs. 
Bagot.  He  read  it  twice  over,  and  was 
forced  to  acknowledge  that  it  was  a 
very  good  letter — the  letter  of  a  clever, 
warm-hearted  woman,  but  a  woman 
also  whose  son  was  to  her  as  the  very 
apple  of  her  eye.  One  felt  she  was 
ready  to  flay  her  dearest  friend  alive 
in  order  to  make  Little  Billee  a  pair  of 
gloves  out  of  the  skin,  if  he  wanted  a 
pair;  but  one  also  felt  she  would  be 
genuinely  sorry  for  the  friend.  Taffy's 
own  mother  had  been  a  little  like  that, 
and  he  missed  her  every  day  of  his  life. 

Full  justice  was  done  by  Mrs.  Bagot 
to  all  Trilby's  qualities  of  head  and 
heart  and  person ;  but  at  the  same  time 
she  pointed  out,  with  all  the  cunning 
and  ingeniously  casuistic  logic  of  her 
sex,  when  it  takes  to  special  pleading 
(even  when  it  has  right  on  its  side), 
what  the  consequences  of  such  a  mar- 
riage must  inevitably  be  in  a  few 
years — even  sooner!'  The  quick  dis- 
enchantment, the  life-long  regret,  on 
both  sides ! 

He  could  not  have  found  a  word  to 
controvert  her  arguments,  save  perhaps 
in  his  own  private  belief  that  Trilby 
and  Little  Billee  were  both  exceptional 
people;  and  how  could  he  hope  to 
know  Little  Billee's  nature  better  than 
the  boy's  own  mother? 

And  if  he  had  been  the  boy's  elder 
brother  in  blood,  as  he  already  was  in 
art  and  affection,  would  he,  should  he, 
could  he  have  given  his  fraternal  sanc- 
tion to  such  a  match? 

Both  as  his  friend  and  his  brother 
he  felt  it  was  out  of  the  question. 

The  other  letter  was  from  Trilby, 


in  her  bold,  careless  handwriting,  that 
sprawled  all  over  the  page,  and  her  oc- 
casionally imperfect  spelling.  It  ran 
thus: 

"My  dear,  dear  Taffy, — This  is  to 
say  good-by.  I'm  going  away,  to  put  an 
end  to  all  this  misery,  for  which  nobody's 
to  blame  but  myself. 

"The  very  moment  after  I'd  said  yes  to 
Little  Billee  I  knew  perfectly  well  what 
a  stupid  fool  I  was,  and  I've  been  ashamed 
of  myself  ever  since.  I  had  a  miserable 
week,  I  can  tell  you.  I  knew  how  it 
would  all  turn  out. 

"I  am  dreadfully  unhappy,  but  not 
half  so  unhappy  as  if  I  married  him  and 
he  were  ever  to  regret  it  and  be  ashamed  of 
me;  and  of  course  he  would,  really,  even 


"I  MUST  TAKE  THE  BULL,  BY  THE  HORNS. 


734 


HARPER'S    NEW    MONTHLY   MAGAZINE. 


trilby:  where  is  she  i 


if  he  didn't  show  it— good  and  kind  as  he 
is — an  angel! 

11  Besides— of  course  I  could  never  be  a 
lady — how  could  -I? — though  I  ought  to 
have  been  one,  I  suppose.  But  every- 
thing seems  to  have  gone  wrong  with 
me,  though  I  never  found  it  out  before — 
and  it  can't  be  righted  1 

' '  Poor  papa ! 

"  I  am  going  away  with  Jean  not.  I've 
been  neglecting  him  shamefully.  I  mean 
to  make  up  for  it  all  now. 

"You  mustn't  try  and  find  out  where 
I  am  going;  I  know  you  won't  if  I  beg 
you,  nor  any  one  else.  It  would  make 
everything  so  much  harder  for  me. 

"  Angele  knows;  she  has  promised  me 
not  to  tell.  I  should  like  to  have  a  line 
from  you  very  much.  If  you  send  it  to 
her  she  will  send  it  on  to  me. 

"Dear  Taffy,  next  to  Little  Billee,  I 
love  you  and  the  Laird  better  than  any 
one  else  in  the  whole  world.  I've  never 
known  real  happiness  till  I  met  you. 
You  have  changed  me  into  another  per- 
son— you  and  Sandy  and  Little  Billee. 

"Oh,  it  has  been  a  jolly  time,  though 
it  didn't  last  long.  It  will  have  to  do  for 
me  for  life.  So  good-by.  I  shall  never, 
never  forget;  and  remain,  with  dearest 
love, 


"Your  ever  faithful 
and  most  affectionate 
friend, 

Trilby  O'Ferrall. 

"P.S.— When  it  has 
all  blown  over  and 
settled  again,  if  it  ever 
does,  I  shall  come  back 
to  Paris,  perhaps,  and 
see  you  again  some 
day." 

The  good  Taffy  pon- 
dered deeply  over  this 
letter — read  it  half  a 
dozen  times  at  least; 
and  then  he  kissed  it, 
and  put  it  back  into 
its  envelope  and  locked 
it  up. 

He  knew  what  very 
deep  anguish  underlay 
this  somewhat  trivial 
expression  of  her  sor- 
row. 

He     guessed     how 
Trilby,    so    childishly 
impulsive  and  demon- 
strative  in   the    ordinary   intercourse   of 
friendship,  would  be  more  reticent  than 
most  women  in  such  a  case  as  this. 

He  wrote  to  her  warmly,  affectionate- 
ly, at  great  length,  and  sent  the  letter  as 
she  had  told  him. 

The  Laird  also  wrote  a  long  letter  full 
of  tenderly  worded  friendship  and  sincere 
regard.  Both  expressed  their  hope  and 
belief  that  they  would  soon  see  her  again, 
when  the  first  bitterness  of  her  grief 
would  be  over,  and  that  the  old  pleasant 
relations  would  be  renewed. 

And  then,  feeling  wretched,  they  went 
and  silently  lunched  together  at  the  Cafe 
de  l'Odeon,  where  the  omelets  were  good 
and  the  wine  wasn't  blue. 

Late  that  evening  they  sat  together  in 
the  studio,  reading.  They  found  they 
could  not  talk  to  each  other  very  readily 
without  Little  Billee  to  listen— three's 
company  sometimes  and  two's  none! 

Suddenly  there  was  a  tremendous  get- 
ting up  the  dark  stairs  outside  in  a  vio- 
lent hurry,  and  Little  Billee  burst  into 
the  room  like  a  small  whirlwind— hag- 
gard, out  of  breath,  almost  speechless  at 
first  with  excitement. 

"Trilby!  where  is  she?  .  .  .  what's  be- 
come of  her  ?  .  .  She's  run  away  .  .  .  oh ! 
She's  written  me  such  a  letter!  .  .  .  We 


TRILBY. 


735 


were  to  have  been  married  ...  at  the 
Embassy  .  .  .  my  mother  .  .  .  she's  been 
meddling;  and  that  cursed  old  ass.  .  . 
that  beast  .  .  my  uncle!  .  .  They've  been 
here!  I  know  all  about  it .  .  .  .  Why 
didn't  you  stick  up  for  her?  ..." 

"I  did.  .  .  as  well  as  I  could.  Sandy 
couldn't  stand  it,  and  cut." 

"  You  stuck  up  for  her.  .  .  you — why, 
you  agreed  with  my  mother  that  she 
oughtn't  to  marry  me  —  you  —  you  false 

friend — you Why,  she's  an  angel — 

far  too  good  for  the  likes  of  me .  .  you 
know  she  is.  As  .  .  as  for  her  social  posi- 
tion and  all  that,  what  degrading  rot! 
Her  father  was  as  much  a  gentleman  as 
mine  .  .  .  besides .  .  .  what  the  devil  do  I 
care  for  her  father? .  .  .  it's  her  I  want — 
her — her — her,  I  tell  you  ...  I  can't  live 
without  her .  .  I  must  have  her  back — I 
must  have  her  back  .  .  do  you  hear  f  We 
were  to  have  lived  together  at  Barbizon 
...  all  our  lives — and  I  was  to  have  paint- 
ed stunning  pictures.  .  .  like  those  other 
fellows  there.  Who  cares  for  their  social 
position,  I  should  like  to  know  ...  or  that 

of  their  wives?     D social  position! .  . 

we've  often  said  so — over  and  over  again. 
An  artist's  life  should  be  away  from  the 
world — above  all  that  meanness  and  pal- 
triness. .  .  all  in  his  work.  Social  posi- 
tion, indeed!  Over  and  over  again  we've 
said  what  fetid  bestial  rot  it  all  was — a 
thing  to  make  one  sick  and  shut  one's 
self  away  from  the  world  .  .  .  Why  say  one 
thing  and  act  another? .  .  Love  comes  be- 
fore all — love  levels  all — love  and  art .  . 
and  beauty — before  such  beauty  as  Tril- 
by's rank  doesn't  exist.  Such  rank  as 
mine, too!  Good  God !  I'll  never  paint  an- 
other stroke  till  I've  got  her  back  .  .  nev- 
er, never,  I  tell  you — I  can't — I  won't ! .  .  " 

And  so  the  poor  boy  went  on,  tearing 
and  raving  about  in  his  rampage,  knock- 
ing over  chairs  and  easels,  stammering 
and  shrieking,  mad  with  excitement. 

They  tried  to  reason  with  him,  to  make 
him  listen,  to  point  out  that  it  was  not 
her  social  position  alone  that  unfitted  her 
to  be  his  wife  and  the  mother  of  his  chil- 
dren, etc. 

It  was  no  good.  He  grew  more  and 
more  uncontrollable,  became  almost  un- 
intelligible, he  stammered  so — a  pitiable 
sight  and  pitiable  to  hear. 

"Oh!  oh!  good  heavens!  are  you  so 
precious  immaculate,  you  two,  that  you 
should  throw  stones  at  poor  Trilby? 
What  a  shame,  what  a  hideous  shame  it 


is  that  there  should  be  one  law  for  the 
woman  and  another  for  the  man  ! .  .  . 
poor  weak  women — poor  soft  affectionate 
things  that  beasts  of  men  are  always  run- 
ning after,  and  pestering,  and  ruining, 
and  trampling  underfoot .  .  .  Oh  !  oh  !  it 
makes  me  sick — it  makes  me  sick!"  And 
finally  he  gasped  and  screamed  and  fell 
down  in  a  fit  on  the  floor. 

The  doctor  was  sent  for;  Taffy  went  in 
a  cab  to  the  Hotel  de  Lille  et  d'Albion  to 
fetch  his  mother;  and  poor  Little  Billee, 
quite  unconscious,  was  undressed  by  San- 
dy and  Madame  Vinard  and  put  into  the 
Laird's  bed. 


LA   SCEUR   DE    LITREBILI. 


The  doctor  came,  and  not  long  after 
Mrs.  Bagot  and  her  daughter.  It  was  a 
serious  case.  Another  doctor  was  called 
in.  Beds  were  got  and  made  up  in  the 
studio  fOr  the  two  grief-stricken  ladies, 
and  thus  closed  the  eve  of  what  was  to 
have  been  poor  Little  Billee's  wedding- 
day,  it  seems. 

Little  Billee's  attack  appears  to  have 
been  a  kind  of  epileptic  seizure.  It  end- 
ed in  brain -fever  and  other  complica- 
tions— a  long  and  tedious  illness.  It  was 
many  weeks  before  he  was  out  of  danger, 
and  his  convalescence  was  long  and  te- 
dious too. 

His  nature  seemed  changed.  He  lay 
languid    and   listless — never   even   men- 


736 


HARPER'S    NEW    MONTHLY    MAGAZINE. 


tioned  Trilby,  except  once  to  ask  if  she 
had  come  back,  and  if  any  one  knew 
where  she  was,  and  if  she  had  been  writ- 
ten to. 

She  had  not,  it  appears.  Mrs.  Bagot 
had  thought  it  was  better  not,  and  Taffy 
and  the  Laird  agreed  with  her  that  no 
good  could  come  of  writing. 

Mrs.  Bagot  felt  bitterly  against  the  wo- 
man who  had  been  the  cause  of  all  this 
trouble,  and  bitterly  against  herself  for 
her  injustice.  It  was  an  unhappy  time 
for  everybody. 

There  was  more  unhappiness  still  to 
come. 

One  day  in  February  Madame  Angele 
Boisse  called  on  Taffy  and  the  Laird  in 
the  temporary  studio  where  they  worked. 
She  was  in  terrible  tribulation. 

Trilby's  little  brother  had  died  of  scar- 
let fever  and  was  buried,  and  Trilby  had 
left  her  hiding-place  the  day  after  the 
funeral  and  had  never  come  back,  and 
this  was  a  week  ago.  She  and  Jeannot 
had  been  living  at  a  village  called  Vi- 
braye,  in  la  Sarthe,  lodging  with  some 
poor  people  she  knew — she  washing  and 
working  with  her  needle  till  her  brother 
fell  ill. 

She  had  never  left  his  bedside  for  a 
moment,  night  or  day,  and  when  he  died 
her  grief  was  so  terrible  that  people 
thought  she  would  go  out  of  her  mind; 
and  the  day  after  he  was  buried  she  was 
not  to  be  found  anywhere — she  had  dis- 
appeared, taking  nothing  with  her,  not 
even  her  clothes — simply  vanished  and 
left  no  sign,  no  message  of  any  kind. 

All  the  ponds  had  been  searched — all 
the  wells,  and  the  small  stream  that  flows 
through  Vibraye — and  the  old  forest. 

Taffy  went  to  Vibraye,  cross-examined 
everybody  he  could,  communicated  with 
the  Paris  police,  but  with  no  result,  and 
every  afternoon,  with  a  beating  heart,  he 
went  to  the  Morgue 

The  news  was  of  course  kept  from  Lit- 
tle Billee.  There  was  no  difficulty  about 
this.  He  never  asked  a  question,  hardly 
ever  spoke. 

When  he  first  got  up  and  was  carried 
into  the  studio  he  asked  for  his  picture 
"The  Pitcher  goes  to  the  Well,"  and 
looked  at  it  for  a  while,  and  then  shrugged 
his  shoulders  and  laughed — a  miserable 
sort  of  laugh,  painful  to  hear — the  laugh 
of  a  cold  old  man,  who  laughs  so  as  not 


to  cry !  Then  he  looked  at  his  mother 
and  sister,  and  saw  the  sad  havoc  that 
grief  and  anxiety  had  wrought  in  them. 

It  seemed  to  him,  as  in  a  bad  dream, 
that  he  had  been  mad  for  many  years — a 
cause  of  endless  sickening  terror  and  dis- 
tress; and  that  his  poor  weak  wandering 
wits  had  come  back  at  last,  bringing  in 
their  train  cruel  remorse,  and  the  remem- 
brance of  all  the  patient  love  and  kind- 
ness that  had  been  lavished  on  him  for 
many  years!  His  sweet  sister — his  dear, 
long-suffering  mother!  what  had  really 
happened  to  make  them  look  like  this? 

And  taking  them  both  in  his  feeble 
arms,  he  fell  a-weeping,  quite  desperately 
and  for  a  long  time. 

And  when  his  weeping 'fit  was  over, 
when  he  had  quite  wept  himself  out,  he 
fell  asleep. 

And  when  he  woke  he  was  conscious 
that  another  sad  thing  had  happened  to 
him,  and  that  for  some  mysterious  cause 
his  power  of  loving  had  not  come  back 
with  his  wandering  wits— had  been  left 
behind— and  it  seemed  to  him  that  it  was 
gone  for  ever  and  ever — would  never  come 
back  again — not  even  his  love  for  his 
mother  and  sister,  not  even  his  love  for 
Trilby — where  all  that  had  once  been  was 
a  void,  a  gap,  a  blankness 

Truly,  if  Trilby  had  suffered  much,  she 
had  also  been  the  innocent  cause  of  ter- 
rible suffering.  Poor  Mrs.  Bagot,  in  her 
heart,  could  not  forgive  her. 

I  feel  this  is  getting  to  be  quite  a  sad 
story,  and  that  it  is  high  time  to  cut  this 
part  of  it  short. 

As  the  warmer  weather  came,  and  Lit- 
tle Billee  got  stronger,  the  studio  became 
more  pleasant.  The  ladies'  beds  were  re- 
moved to  another  studio  on  the  next  land- 
ing, which  was  vacant,  and  the  friends 
came  to  see  Little  Billee,  and  make  it 
more  lively  for  him  and  his  sister. 

As  for  Taffy  and  the  Laird,  they  had 
already  long  been  to  Mrs.  Bagot  as  a  pair 
of  crutches,  without  whose  invaluable 
help  she  could  never  have  held  herself 
upright  to  pick  her  way  in  all  this  maze 
of  trouble. 

Then  M.  Carrel  came  every  day  to  chat 
with  his  favorite  pupil  and  gladden  Mrs. 
Bagot's  heart.  And  also  Durien, 'Carne- 
gie, Petrol icoconose,  Vincent,  Sibley,  Lor- 
rimer,  Dodor,  and  l'Zouzou;  Mrs.  Bagot 
thought  the  last  two  irresistible,  when 
she  had  once  been  satisfied  that  they  were 
"gentlemen,"  in   spite   of  appearances. 


TRILBY 


737 


And,  indeed,  they 
showed  them- 

selves to  great 
advantage  ;  and 
though  they  were 
so  much  the  op- 
posite to  Little 
Billee  in  every- 
thing, she  felt 
almost  maternal 
towards  them,  and 
gave  them  inno- 
cent good  mother- 
ly advice,  which 
they  swallowed 
avec  attendrisse- 
ment,  not  even 
stealing  a  look  at 
each  other.  And 
they  held  Mrs. 
Bagot's  wool,  and 
listened  to  Miss 
Bagot's  sacred  mu- 
sic with  upturned 
pious  eyes,  and 
mealy  mouths  that 
butter  wouldn't 
melt  in! 

It  is  good  to  be 
a  soldier  and  a  detrimental;  you  touch 
the  hearts  of  women  and  charm  them — 
old  and  young,  high  or  low  (excepting, 
perhaps,  a  few  worldly  mothers  of  mar- 
riageable daughters).  They  take  the  stick- 
ing of  your  tongue  in  the  cheek  for  the 
wearing  of  your  heart  on  the  sleeve. 

Indeed,  good  women  all  over  the  world, 
and  ever  since  it  began,  have  loved  to  be 
bamboozled  by  these  genial  roistering 
dare-devils,  who  haven't  got  a  penny  to 
bless  themselves  with  (which  is  so  touch- 
ing), and  are  supposed  to  carry  their  lives 
in  their  hands,  even  in  piping  times  of 
peace.  Nay,  even  a  few  rare  bad  women 
sometimes,  such  women  as  the  best  and 
wisest  of  us  are  often  ready  to  sell  our 
souls  for! 

"A  lightsome  eye,  a  soldier's  mien, 
A  feather  of  the  blue, 
A  doublet  of  the  Lincoln  green — 
No  more  of  me  you  knew, 

My  love ! 
No  more  of  me  you  knew.  .  .  ." 

As  if  that  wasn't  enough,  and  to  spare! 

Little  Billee  could  hardly  realize  that 
these  two  polite  and  gentle  and  sympa- 
thetic sons  of  Mars  were  the  lively  grigs 
who  had  made  themselves  so  pleasant  all 
round,  and  in  such  a  singular  manner, 


HE    FELL   A-WEEPING   QUITE    DESPERATELY. 


on  the  top  of  that  St.  Cloud  omnibus; 
and  he  admired  how  they  added  hypocri- 
sy to  their  other  crimes! 

Svengali  had  gone  back  to  Germany, 
it  seemed,  with  his  pockets  full  of  napole- 
ons and  big  Havana  cigars,  and  wrapped 
in  an  immense  fur-lined  coat,  which  he 
meant  to  wear  all  through  the  summer. 
But  little  Gecko  often  came  with  his  vio- 
lin and  made  lovely  music,  and  that 
seemed  to  do  Little  Billee  more  good  than 
anything  else. 

It  made  him  realize  in  his  brain  all  the 
love  he  could  no  longer  feel  in  his  heart. 
The  sweet  melodic  phrase,  rendered  by 
a  master,  was  as  wholesome,  refreshing 
balm  to  him  while  it  lasted  —  or  as 
manna  in  the  wilderness.  It  was  the 
one  good  thing  within  his  reach,  never 
to  be  taken  from  him  as  long  as  his  ear- 
drums remained  and  he  could  hear  a  mas- 
ter play. 

Poor  Gecko  treated  the  two  English  la- 
dies de  bas  en  haut  as  if  they  had  been 
goddesses,  even  when  they  accompanied 
him  on  the  piano!  He  begged  their  par- 
don for  every  wrong  note  they  struck, 
and  adopted  their  "tempi" — that  is  the 
proper  technical  term,  I  believe  —  and 
turned  scherzos  and  allegrettos  into  fu- 


738 


HARPER'S    NEW    MONTHLY    MAGAZINE. 


neral  dirges  to  please  them;  and  agreed 
with  them,  poor  little  traitor,  that  it  all 
sounded  much  better  like  that! 

Oh  Beethoven !  oh  Mozart !  did  you  turn 
in  your  graves  ? 

Then,  on  fine  afternoons,  Little  Billee 
was  taken  for  drives  to  the  Bois  de  Bou- 
logne with  his  mother  and  sister  in  an 
open  fly,  and  generally  Taffy  as  a  fourth  ; 
to  Passy,  Auteuil,  Boulogne,  St.  Cloud, 
Meudon — there  are  many  charming' places 
within  an  easy  drive  of  Paris. 

And  sometimes  Taffy  or  the  Laird 
would  escort  Mrs.  and  Miss  Bagot  to  the 
Luxembourg  Gallery,  the  Louvre,  the 
Palais  Royal — to  the  Comedie  Francaise 
once  or  twice;  and  on  Sundays,  now  and 
then,  to  the  English  chapel  in  the  Rue 
Marbceuf.  It  was  all  very  pleasant;  and 
Miss  Bagot  looks  back  on  the  days  of  her 
brother's  convalescence  as  among  the 
happiest  in  her  life. 

And  they  would  all  five  dine  together 
in  the  studio,  with  Madame  Vinard  to 
wait,  and  her  mother  (a  cordon  bleu)  for 
cook;  and  the  whole  aspect  of  the  place 
was  changed  and  made  fragrant,  sweet, 
and  charming  by  all  this  new  feminine 
invasion  and  occupation. 

And  what  is  sweeter  to  watch  than  the 
dawn  and  growth  of  love's  young  dream, 
when  strength  and  beauty  meet  together 
by  the  couch  of  a  beloved  invalid? 

Of  course  the  sympathetic  reader  will 
foresee  how  readily  the  stalwart  Taffy 
fell  a  victim  to  the  charms  of  his  friend's 
sweet  sister,  and  how  she  grew  to  return 
his  more  than  brotherly  regard  !  and  how, 
one  lovely  evening,  just  as  March  was 
going  out  like  a  lamb  (to  make  room  for 
the  first  of  April),  Little  Billee  joined  their 
hands  together,  and  gave  them  his  bro- 
therly blessing! 

As  a  matter  of  fact,  however,  nothing 
of  this  kind  happened.  Nothing  ever 
happens  but  the  unforeseen.     Pazienza! 

Then  at  length  one  day— it  was  a  fine, 
sunny,  showery  day  in  April,  by-the-bye, 
and  the  big  studio  window  was  open  at 
the  top  and  let  in  a  pleasant  breeze  from 
the  northwest,  just  as  when  our  little 
story  began— a  railway  omnibus  drew  up 
at  the  porte  cochere  in  the  Place  St.-Ana- 
tole  des  Arts,  and  carried  away  to  the 
station  of  the  Chemin  de  Fer  du  Nord  Lit- 
tle Billee  and  his  mother  and  sister,  and 
all  their  belongings  (the  famous  picture 
had  gone  before) ;  and  Taffy  and  the  Laird 


rode  with  them,  their  faces  very  long,  to 
see  the  last  of  the  dear  people,  and  of  the 
train  that  was  to  bear  them  away  from 
Paris;  and  Little  Billee,  with  his  quick, 
prehensile,  aesthetic  eye,  took  many  a 
long  and  wistful  parting  gaze  at  many 
a  French  thing  he  loved,  from  the  gray 
towers  of  Notre  Dame  downwards — Hea- 
ven only  knew  when  he  might  see  them 
again! — so  he  tried  to  get  their  aspect 
well  by  heart,  that  he  might  have  the 
better  store  of  beloved  shape  and  color 
memories  to  chew  the  cud  of  when  his 
lost  powers  of  loving  and  remembering 
clearly  should  come  back,  and  he  lay 
awake  at  night  and  listened  to  the  wash 
of  the  Atlantic  along  the  beautiful  red 
sandstone  coast  at  home. 

He  had  a  faint  hope  that  he  should 
feel  sorry  at  parting  with  Taffy  and  the 
Laird. 

But  when  the  time  came  for  saying 
good-by  he  couldn't  feel  sorry  in  the 
least,  for  all  he  tried  and  strained  so  hard ! 

So  he  thanked  them  so  earnestly  and 
profusely  for  all  their  kindness  and  pa- 
tience and  sympathy  (as  did  also  his  mo- 
ther and  sister)  that  their  hearts  were  too 
full  to  speak,  and  their  manner  was  quite 
gruff — it  was  a  way  they  had  when  they 
were  deeply  moved  and  didn't  want  to 
show  it. 

And  as  he  gazed  out  of  the  carriage 
window  at  their  two  forlorn  figures  look- 
ing after  him  when  the  train  steamed  out 
of  the  station,  his  sorrow  at  not  feeling 
sorry  made  him  look  so  haggard  and  so 
woe-begone  that  they  could  scarcely  bear 
the  sight  of  him  departing  without  them, 
and  almost  felt  as  if  they  must  follow  by 
the  next  train,  and  go  and  cheer  him  up 
in  Devonshire,  and  themselves  too. 

They  did  not  yield  to  this  amiable 
weakness.  Sorrowfully,  arm  in  arm, 
with  trailing  umbrellas,  they  recrossed 
the  river,  and  found  their  way  to  the 
Cafe  de  l'Odeon,  where  they  ate  many 
omelets  in  silence,  and  dejectedly  drank 
of  the  best  they  could  get,  and  were  very 
sad  indeed. 


"  Felieite  passee 
Qui  ne  peux  revenir, 
Tournient  do  ma  pensee, 
Que  n'ay-je,  en  te  perdant,  perdu  le  souvenir!" 

Nearly  five  years  have  elapsed   since 
we  bade  farewell  and  au  revoir  to  Taffy 


TRILBY. 


739 


and  the  Laird  at  the  Paris  station  of  the 
Chemin  de  Fer  du  Nord,  and  wished  Little 
Billee  and  his  mother  and  sister  God-speed 
on  their  way  to  Devonshire,  where  the 
poor  sufferer  was  to  rest  and  lie  fallow 
for  a  few  months,  and  recruit  his  lost 
strength  and  energy,  that  he  might  fol- 
low up  his  first  and  well-deserved  success, 
which  perhaps  contributed  just  a  little  to 
his  recovery. 

Many  of  my  readers  will  remember  bis 
splendid  debut  at  the  Royal  Academy  in 
Trafalgar  Square  with  that  now  so  fa- 
mous canvas  "The  Pitcher  goes  to  the 
Well,"  and  how  it  was  sold  three  times 
over  on  the  morning  of  the  private  view, 
the  third  time  for  a  thousand  pounds — 
just  five  times  what  he  got  for  it  himself. 
And  that  was  thought  a  large  sum  in 
those  days  for  a  beginner's  picture,  two 
feet  by  four. 

I  am  well  aware  that  such  a  vulgar 
test  is  no  criterion  whatever  of  a  pic- 
ture's real  merit.  But  this  picture  is  well 
known  to  all  the  world  by  this  time,  and 
sold  only  last  year  at  Christy's  (more 
than  thirty-six  years  after  it  was  painted) 
for  three  thousand  pounds. 

Thirty-six  years !  That  goes  a  long  way 
to  redeem  even  three  thousand  pounds  of 
all  their  cumulative  vulgarity. 


"The  Pitcher"  is  now  in  the  National 
Gallery,  with  that  other  canvas  by  the 
same  hand,  "The  Moon- Dial."  There 
they  hang  together  for  all  who  care  to 
see  them,  his  first  and  his  last — the  blos- 
som and  the  fruit. 

He  had  not  long  to  live  himself,  and  it 
was  his  good  fortune,  so  rare  among  those 
whose  work  is  destined  to  live  forever, 
that  he  succeeded  at  his  first  go-off. 

And  his  success  was  of  the  best  and 
most  flattering  kind. 

It  began  high  up,  where  it  should, 
among  the  masters  of  his  own  craft. 
But  his  fame  filtered  quickly  down  to 
those  immediately  beneath,  and  through 
these  to  wider  circles.  And  there  was 
quite  enough  of  opposition  and  vilifica- 
tion and  coarse  abuse  of  him  to  clear  it 
of  any  suspicion  of  cheapness  or  evanes- 
cence. What  better  antiseptic  can  there 
be  than  the  philistine's  deep  hate?  what 
sweeter,  fresher,  wholesomer  music  than 
the  sound  of  his  voice  when  he  doth  so 
furiously  rage? 

Yes!  That  is  "good  production" — as 
Svengali  would  have  said — "c'est  un  cri 
du  cceur." 

And  then, when  popular  acclaim  brings 
the  great  dealers  and  the  big  cheques,  up 
rises  the  printed  howl  of  the  duffer,  the 


'the  sweet  melodic  phrase." 


740 


HARPER'S    NEW    MONTHLY    MAGAZINE. 


disappointed  one,  the  "wounded  thing 
with  an  angry  cry" — the  prosperous  and 
happy  bagman  that  should  have  been, 
who  has  given  up  all  for  art,  and  finds 
he  can't  paint  and  make  himself  a  name, 
after  all,  and  never  will,  so  falls  to  writ- 
ing about  those  who  can— and  what  writ- 
ing! 

To  write  in  hissing  dispraise  of  our 
more  successful  fellow-craftsman,  and  of 
those  who  admire  him !  that  is  not  a  clean 
or  pretty  trade.  It  seems,  alas !  an  easy 
one,  and  it  gives  pleasure  to  so  many. 
It  does  not  even  want  good  grammar. 
But  it  pays — well  enough  even  to  start 
and  run  a  magazine  with,  instead  of 
scholarship  and  taste  and  talent!  humor, 
sense,  wit,  and  wisdom!  It  is  something 
like  the  purveying  of  pornographic  pic- 
tures :  some  of  us  look  at  them  and 
laugh,  and  even  buy.  To  be  a  purchas- 
er is  bad  enough;  but  to  be  the  purveyor 
thereof — ugh ! 

A  poor  devil  of  a  cracked  soprano  (are 
there  such  people  still?)  who  has  been 
turned  out  of  the  Pope's  choir  because  he 
can't  sing  in  tune,  after  all!— think  of 
him  yelling  and  squeaking  his  treble 
rage  at  Santley — Sims  Reeves — Lablache! 

Poor  lost  beardless  nondescript!  why 
not  fly  to  other  climes,  where  at  least 
thou  might'st  hide  from  us  thy  woful 
crack,  and  keep  thy  miserable  secret  to 
thyself  !  Are  there  no  harems  still  left 
in  Stamboul  for  the  likes  of  thee  to  sweep 
and  clean,  no  women's  beds  to  make  and 
slops  to  empty,  and  doors  and  windows 
to  bar — and  tales  to  carry,  and  the  pasha's 
confidence  and  favor  and  protection  to 
win?  Even  that  is  a  better  trade  than 
pandering  for  hire  to  the  basest  instinct 
of  all — the  dirty  pleasure  we  feel  (some  of 
us)  in  seeing  mud  and  dead  cats  and  rot- 
ten eggs  flung  at  those  we  cannot  but  ad- 
mire— and  secretly  envy! 

All  of  which  eloquence  means  that  Lit- 
tle Billee  was  pitched  into  right  and  left, 
as  well  as  overpraised.  And  it  all  rolled 
off  him  like  water  off  a  duck's  back,  both 
praise  and  blame. 

It  was  a  happy  summer  for  Mrs.  Bagot, 
a  sweet  compensation  for  all  the  anguish 
of  the  winter  that  had  gone  before,  with 
her  two  beloved  children  together  under 
her  wing,  and  all  the  world  (for  her)  ring- 
ing with  the  praise  of  her  boy,  the  apple 
of  her  eye,  so  providentially  rescued  from 
the  very  jaws  of  death,  and  from  other 


dangers  almost  as  terrible  to  her  fiercely 
jealous  maternal  heart. 

And  his  affection  for  her  seemed  to 
grow  with  his  returning  health ;  but,  alas ! 
he  was  never  again  to  be  quite  the  same 
light-hearted,  innocent,  expansive  lad  he 
had  been  before  that  fatal  year  spent  in 
Paris. 

One  chapter  of  his  life  was  closed, 
never  to  be  reopened,  never  to  be  spoken 
of  again  by  him  to  her,  by  her  to  him. 
She  could  neither  forgive  nor  forget.  She 
could  but  be  silent. 

Otherwise  he  was  pleasant  and  sweet 
to  live  with,  and  everything  was  done  to 
make  his  life  at  home  as  sweet  and  plea- 
sant as  a  loving  mother  could — as  could  a 
most  charming  sister — and  others'  sisters 
who  were  charming  too,  and  much  dis- 
posed to  worship  at  the  shrine  of  this 
young  celebrity,  who  Avoke  up  one  morn- 
ing in  their  little  village  to  find  himself 
famous,  and  bore  his  blushing  honors  so 
meekly.  And  among  them  the  vicar's 
daughter,  his  sister's  friend  and  co-teaclier 
at  the  Sunday-school,  "a  simple,  pure, 
and  pious  maiden  of  gentle  birth,"  every- 
thing he  once  thought  a  young  lady 
should  be;  and  her  name  it  was  Alice, 
and  she  was  sweet,  and  her  hair  was 
brown — as  brown  ! .  .  .  . 

And  if  he  no  longer  found  the  simple 
country  pleasures,  the  junketings  and 
picnics,  the  garden  parties  and  innocent 
little  musical  evenings,  quite  so  exciting 
as  of  old,  he  never  showed  it. 

Indeed,  there  was  much  that  he  did  not 
show,  and  that  his  mother  and  sister  tried 
in  vain  to  guess — many  things. 

And  among  them  one  thing  that  con- 
stantly preoccupied  and  distressed  him — 
the  numbness  of  his  affections.  He  could 
be  as  easily  demonstrative  to  his  mother 
and  sister  as  though  nothing  had  ever 
happened  to  him — from  the  mere  force  of 
a  sweet  old  habit — even  more  so,  out  of 
sheer  gratitude  and  compunction. 

But,  alas!  he  felt  that  in  his  heart  he 
could  no  longer  care  for  them  in  the 
least! — nor  for  Taffy,  nor  the  Laird,  nor 
for  himself ;  not  even  for  Trilby,  of  whom 
he  constantly  thought,  but  without  emo- 
tion ;  mid  of  whose  strange  disappearance 
he  had  been  told,  and  the  story  had  been 
confirmed  in  all  its  details  by  Angele 
Boisse,  to  whom  he  had  written. 

It  was  as  though  some  part  of  his  brain 
where  his  affections  were  seated  had  been 
paralyzed,  while  all  the  rest  of  it  was  as 


TRILBY. 


741 


keen  and  as  active  as  ever.  He  felt  like 
some  poor  live  bird  or  beast  or  reptile,  a 
part  of  whose  cerebrum  (or  cerebellum, 
or  whatever  it  is)  had  been  dug-  out  by 
the  vivisector  for  experimental  purposes; 
and  the  strongest  emotional  feeling  he 
seemed  capable  of  was  his  anxiety  and 
alarm  about  this  curious  symptom,  and 
his  concern  as  to  whether  he  ought  to 
mention  it  or  not. 

He  did  not  do  so,  for  fear  of  causing 
distress,  hoping  that  it  would  pass  away 
in  time,  and  redoubled 
his  caresses  to  his  mo- 
ther and  sister,  and 
clung  to  them  more 
than  ever;  and  became 
more  considerate  of  oth- 
ers in  manner,  word, 
and  deed  than  he  had 
ever  been  before,  as 
though  by  constantly 
assuming  the  virtue  he 
had  no  longer  he  would 
gradually  coax  it  back 
again.  There  was  no 
trouble  he  would  not 
take  to  give  pleasure  to 
the  humblest. 

Also,  his  vanity  about 
himself  had  become  as 
nothing,  and  he  missed 
it  almost  as  much  as  his 
affection. 

Yet  he  told  himself 
over  and  over  again 
that  he  was  a  great  ar- 
tist, and  that  he  would 
spare  no  pains  to  make 
himself  a  greater.  But 
that  was  no  merit  of  his 
own. 

2  +  2=4,also2x2  =  4; 
that  peculiarity  was  no 
reason  why  4  should  be 
conceited ;  for  what  was 
4  but  a  result,  either 
way? 

Well,  he  was  like  4 — 
just  an  inevitable  result 
of  circumstances  over  which  he  had  no 
control — a  mere  product  or  sum;  and 
though  he  meant  to  make  himself  as  big 
a  4  as  he  could  (to  cultivate  his  peculiar 
fourness),  he  could  no  longer  feel  the 
old  conceit  and  self-complacency;  and 
they  had  been  a  joy,  and  it  was  hard  to 
do  without  them. 


At  the  bottom  of  it  all  was  a  vague 
disquieting  unhappiness,  a  constant  fid- 
get. 

And  it  seemed  to  him,  and  much  to 
his  distress,  that  such  mild  unhappiness 
would  be  the  greatest  he  could  ever  feel 
henceforward — but  that,  such  as  it  was, 
it  would  never  leave  him,  and  that  his 
moral  existence  would  be  for  evermore 
one  long  gray  gloomy  blank — the  glim- 
mer of  twilight  —  never  glad  confident 
morning  again  ! 


"sorrowfully,  arm  in  arm.' 


So  much  for  Little  Billee's  convales- 
cence. 

Then  one  day  in  the  late  autumn  he 
spread  his  wings  and  flew  away  to  Lon- 
don, which  was  very  ready  with  open 
arms  to  welcome  William  Bagot,  the  al- 
ready famous  painter,  alias  Little  Bil- 
led 


[to  be  continued.] 


Vol.  LXXXVIII.-No.  527.-70 


EMPEROR   WILLIAM'S    STUD-FARM   AND   HUNTING  FOREST. 

BY  POULTNEY  BIGELOW. 

Nothing  more  pretty  can  be  conceived 
than  the  appearance  of  the  Major's  quar- 
ters as  we  drove  up  through  the  vista  of 
trees.  It  was  large,  commodious,  covered 
with  vines,  fragrant  with  the  odor  of 
flowers  that  grew  about  and  before  the 
door.  A  shady  lawn  stretched  in  the 
rear  with  flower  beds  on  its  edges,  and 
close  by  was  a  delightful  arbor  where 
coffee  was  served  in  the  afternoon  during 
the  warm  season.  Within  a  few  minutes 
the  family  of  this  Prussian  officer  made 
us  feel  that  we  had  once  more  fallen 
amongst  good  friends.  The  kind  Major 
quickly  divined  the  interest  which  we  felt 
in  the  great  horse-breeding  establishment 
which  he  controlled,  and  as  soon  as  lunch- 
eon was  disposed  of  lost  no  time  in  driv- 
ing us  about  from  point  to  point,  chatting- 
with  us  in  regard  to  what  we  saw,  and 
answering  our  questions  with  frankness. 

To  begin  with,  Trakehnen  is  situated  in 
the  most  favored  province  of  Germany 
for  horse-breeding  purposes,  although, 
geographically  considered,  it  appears  to 
be  the  most  unpropitious.  Nearly  every 
farm  in  East  Prussia  is  devoted  to  this 
one  occupation,  and  the  German  army 
gets  many  more  horses  from  this  little 
corner  than  from  any  other  province  or 
kingdom  of  the  empire.  The  war  author- 
ities are,  in  respect  to  this  branch  of  the 
government,  very  liberal,  for  it  affects  the 
army  directly  as  well  as  it  does  the  coun- 
try indirectly.  The  very  best  thorough- 
breds that  can  be  bought  for  money  are 
brought  here,  and  from  them  are  bred  a 
secondary  class  of  horses  which  the  Ger- 
mans call  "  halbblut,"  a  word  which  can- 
not be  safely  translated  as  half-breed,  but 
is  more  nearly  rendered  by  the  French 
"  pres  du  sang."  Every  year  some  of  the 
best  names  on  the  English  turf  disappear- 
in  favor  of  the  breeding-farms  for  the 
German  cavalry.  The  stallions  chosen 
are  such  as  have  good  records  on  the 
race-track,  and,  in  addition,  the  peculiar 
qualities  of  form  and  structure  which  the 
German  officer  considers  essential  to  the 
ideal  cavalry  horse — that  is  to  say,  one  in 
whom  speed  and  weight-carrying  capaci- 
ty unite  to  the  highest  possible  degree. 
All  told,  Trakehnen  has  about  a  thousand 
head  of  every  age,  but  of  only  one  gen- 
eral class.     It  has  been  by  strict  adher- 


\A  /  HEN  Remington  and  I  crossed 
\  into  Germany  we  determined 
to  make  an  excursion  into 
the  very  easternmost  corner  of  the  Prus- 
sian monarchy,  where  the  father  of  Fred- 
erick the  Great  established  a  great  horse- 
breeding  establishment  near  a  little  vil- 
lage called  Trakehnen.  This  famous 
stud-farm  is  still  carried  on  with  charac- 
teristic energy,  and  not  only  provides  the 
German  Army  with  the  hundred  thou- 
sand horses  which  it  requires  in  time  of 
peace,  but  does  an  enormous  amount  tow- 
ards keeping  up  in  the  country  a  high 
standard  of  horse  for  general  purposes. 
Trakehnen  is  only  about  ten  miles  from 
the  Russian  frontier,  and  has  three  times 
been  exposed  to  capture  by  in  vasion  from 
over  the  border;  but  each  time  the  au- 
thorities have  been  able  to  escape  with 
all  the  animals  there,  a  feat  which  appears 
almost  miraculous  considering  the  flat 
and  open  character  of  the  country.  I 
had  with  me  a  letter  of  introduction  to 
the  commandant  or  governor  of  this  es- 
tate, Major  von  Frankenberg-Proschlitz. 
We  alighted  one  beautiful  day  in  July  at 
the  little  station  of  Trakehnen.  It  was 
the  only  house  in  sight,  the  village  was 
four  miles  away,  but  the  Major  had  kind- 
ly sent  an  open  carriage  to  meet  us.  The 
drive  to  the  Major's  house  was-  along 
beautiful  avenues  shaded  by  oak-trees 
almost  the  whole  way.  When  we  halted 
at  the  front  door,  our  host  received  us 
with  every  manifestation  of  goodwill  in 
spite  of  the  fact  that  on  the  morrow  he 
was  anticipating  an  official  inspection  at 
the  hands  of  no  less  impressive  dignitaries 
than  the  Minister  of  War  and  his  col- 
league of  the  Agricultural  Department. 
A  Prussian  inspection  is  a  matter  of  tre- 
mendous importance,  and  that  Major  von 
Frankenberg  under  such  circumstances 
should  appear  comfortable,  even  genial, 
speaks  volumes  for  the  self-reliance  and 
sweetness  of  that  gentleman's  nature. 


TKILBY.* 

BY  GEORGE   DU   MAURIER. 


AN  INTERLUDE. 
TT^HEN  Taffy  and  the  Laird  went  back 
H  to  the  studio  in  the  Place  St.-Ana- 
tole  des  Arts,  and  resumed  their  ordinary 
life  there,  it  was  with  a  sense  of  desola- 
tion and  dull  bereavement  beyond  any- 
thing" they  could  have  imagined ;  and  this 


PLATONIC   LOVE. 


did  not  seem  to  lessen  as  the  time  wore 
on. 

They   realized  for  the  first   time  how 
keen  and  penetrating  and  unintermittent 

*  Begun  in  January  number,  1894 


had  been  the  charm  of  those  two  cen- 
tral figures  —  Trilby  and  Little  Billee 
—and  how  hard  it  was  to  live  without 
them,  after  such  intimacy  as  had  been 
theirs. 

"  Oh,  it  has  been  a  jolly  time,  though 
it  didn't  last  long  I"  So  Trilby  had  written 
in  her  farewell  letter  to 
Taffy;  and  these  words 
were  true  for  Taffy  and 
the  Laird  as  well  as  for 
her. 

And  that  is  the  worst 
of  those  dear  people  who 
have  charm :  they  are  so 
terrible  to  do  without, 
when  once  you  have  got 
accustomed  to  them  and 
all  their  ways. 

And  when,  besides  be- 
ing charming,  they  are 
simple,  clever,  affection- 
ate, constant,  and    sin- 
cere,   like    Trilby    and 
Little  Billee!     Then  the 
lamentable    hole    their 
disappearance  makes  is 
not  to  be  filled  up!    And 
when   they  are  full   of 
genius,  like  Little  Billee 
— and  like  Trilby,  funny 
without  being  vulgar!   For  so  she  always 
seemed  to  the  Laird  and  Taffy,  even  in 
French  (in  spite  of  her  Gallic  audacities 
of  thought,  speech,  and  gesture). 

All  seemed  to  have  suffered  change. 
The  very  boxing  and  fencing  were  gone 
through  perfunctorily,  for  mere  health's 
sake;  and  a  thin  layer  of  adipose  de- 
posit began  to  soften  the  outlines  of  the 
hills  and  dales  on  Taffy's  mighty  fore- 
arm. 

Dodor  and  TZouzou  no  longer  came  so 
often,  now  that  the  charming  Little  Billee 
and  his  charming  mother  and  still  more 
charming  sister  had  gone  away— nor  Car- 
negie, nor  Sibley,  nor  Lorrimer,  nor  Vin- 
cent, nor  the  Greek.  Gecko  never  came 
at  all.  Even  Svengali  was  missed,  little 
as  he  had  been  liked.  It  is  a  dismal  and 
sulky  looking  piece  of  furniture,  a  grand- 
piano  that  nobody  ever  plays— with  all  its 
sound  and  its  souvenirs  locked  up  inside 


826 


HARPER'S    NEW    MONTHLY    MAGAZINE. 


— a  kind  of  mausoleum!  a  lopsided  coffin 
— trestles  and  all ! 

So  it  went  back  to  London  by  the  "  lit- 
tle quickness/'  just  as  it  had  come! 

Thus  Taffy  and  the  Laird  grew  quite 
sad  and  mopy,  and  lunched  at  the  Cafe 
de  l'Odeon  every  day — till  the  goodness  of 
the  omelets  palled,  and  the  redness  of  the 
wine  there  got  on  their  nerves  and  into 
their  heads  and  faces,  and  made  them 
sleepy  till  dinner-time.  And  then,  wak- 
ing up,  they  dressed  respectably,  and 
dined  expensively,  "like  gentlemen,"  in 
the  Palais  Royal,  or  the  Passage  Choiseul, 
or  the  Passage  des  Panoramas — for  three 
francs,  three  francs  fifty,  even  five  francs 
a  head,  and  half  a  franc  to  the  waiter! — 
and  went  to  the  theatre  almost  every 
night,  on  that  side  of  the  water — and 
more    often   than    not   they  took   a   cab 


FRED    WALKER. 


home,  each  smoking  a  Panatellas,  which 
costs  twenty-five  centimes  —  five   sous — 

Then  they  feebly  drifted  into  quite  de- 
cent society — like  Lorrimer  and  Carnegie 
— with  dress-coats  and  white  ties  on,  and 
their  hair  parted  in  the  middle  and  down 
the  back  of  the  head,  and  brought  over 
the  ears  in  a  bunch  at  each  side,  as  was 
the  English  fashion  in  those  days;  and 
subscribed  to  GalignanVs  Messenger ;  and 
had  themselves  proposed  and  seconded  for 
the  Cercle  Anglais  in  the  Rue  Sainte-n'y 
touche,  a  circle  of  British  philistines  of 
the  very  deepest  dye;  and  went  to  hear 
divine  service  on  Sunday  mornings  in  the 
Rue  Marboeuf ! 

Jndeed,  by  the  end  of  the  summer  they 


had  sunk  into  such  depths  of  demoraliza- 
tion that  they  felt  they  must  really  have 
a  change;  and  decided  on  giving  up  the 
studio  in  the  Place  St.-Anatole  des  Arts, 
and  leaving  Paris  for  good;  and  going  to 
settle  for  the  winter  in  Diisseldorf,  which 
is  a  very  pleasant  place  for  English  paint- 
ers who  do  not  wish  to  overwork  them- 
selves— as  the  Laird  well  knew,  having 
spent  a  year  there. 

It  ended  in  Taffy's  going  to  Antwerp 
for  the  Kermesse,  to  paint  the  Flemish 
drunkard  of  our  time  just  as  he  really  is; 
and  the  Laird's  going  to  Spain,  so  that  he 
might  study  toreadors  from  the  life. 

I  may  as  well  state  here  that  the  Laird's 
toreador  pictures,  which  had  had  quite  a 
vogue  in  Scotland  as  long  as  he  had  been 
content  to  paint  them  in  the  Place  St.- 
Anatole  des  Arts,  quite  ceased  to  please 
(or  sell)  after  he  had  been  to  Seville  and 
Madrid;  so  he  took  to  painting  Roman 
cardinals  and  Neapolitan  pifferari  from 
the  depths  of  his  consciousness — and  was 
so  successful  that  he  made  up  his  mind 
he  would  never  spoil  his  market  by  going 
to  Italy! 

So  he  went  and  painted  his  cardinals 
and  his  pifferari  in  Algiers,  and  Taffy 
joined  him  there,  and  painted  Algerian 
Jews — just  as  they  really  are  (and  didn't 
sell  them) ;  and  then  they  spent  a  year  in 
Munich,  and  then  a  year  in  Diisseldorf, 
and  a  winter  in  Cairo,  and  so  on. 

And  all  this  time,  Taffy,  who  took  eve- 
rything an  grand  serieux — especially  the 
claims  and  obligations  of  friendship — cor- 
responded regularly  with  Little  Billee; 
who  wrote  him  long  and  amusing  letters 
back  again,  and  had  plenty  to  say  about 
his  life  in  London — which  was  a  series  of 
triumphs,  artistic  and  social — and  you 
would  have  thought  from  his  letters, 
modest  though  they  were,  that  no  happier 
young  man,  or  more  elate,  was  to  be 
found  anywhere  in  the  world. 

It  was  a  good  time  in  England,  just 
then,  for  young  artists  of  promise;  a  time 
of  evolution,  revolution,  change,  and 
development — of  the  founding  of  new 
schools  and  the  crumbling  away  of  old 
ones— a  keen  struggle  for  existence — a 
surviving  of  the  fit — a  preparation,  let  us 
hope,  for  the  ultimate  survival  of  the  fit- 
test. 

And  among  the  many  glories  of  this 
particular  period  two  names  stand  out 
very  conspicuously — for  the  immediate 
and   (so  far)  lasting  fame  their  bearers 


TRILBY. 


827 


achieved,  and  the  wide  influence  they  ex- 
erted, and  continue  to  exert  still. 

The  world  will  not  easily  forget  Fred- 
eric Walker  and  William  Bagot,  those  two 
singularly  gifted  boys,  whom  it  soon  be- 
came the  fashion  to  bracket  together,  to 
compare  and  to  contrast,  as  one  compares 
and        contrasts 
Thackeray     and 
Dickens,  Carlyle 
and     Macaulay, 
Tennyson      and 
Browning — a  fu- 
tile though  plea- 
sant practice,  of 
which  the  temp- 
tations seem   ir- 
resistible ! 

Yet  why  com- 
pare the  lily  and 
the  rose? 

These  two 


And,  oddly  enough,  they  were  singu- 
larly  alike    in    aspect — both    small    and 
slight,  though  beautifully  made,  with  tiny 
hands  and  feet;  always   arrayed  as   the 
lilies  of  the  field,  for  all  they  toiled  and 
spun   so   arduously ;  both   had  regularly 
featured  faces  of  a  noble  cast  and  most 
winning   character;    both 
had  the  best  and  simplest 
manners  in  the  world,  and 
a    way   of   getting    them- 
selves much   and  quickly 
and  permanently  liked.  .  .  . 


young  masters 
had  the  genius 
and  the  luck  to 
be  the  progeni- 
tors of  much  of 
the  best  art- work 
that  has  been 
done  in  England 
during  the  last 
thirty  years,  in 
oils,  in  water-col- 
or, in  black  and 
white. 

They  were  both 
essentially  Eng- 
lish and  of  their  own  time;  both  absolute- 
ly original,  receiving  their  impressions 
straight  from  nature  itself;  uninfluenced 
by  any  school,  ancient  or  modern,  they 
founded  schools  instead  of  following  any, 
and  each  was  a  law  unto  himself,  and  a 
law  giver  unto  many  others. 

Both  were  equally  great  in  whatever 
they  attempted — landscape,  figures,  birds, 
beasts,  or  fishes.  Who  does  not  remember 
the  fishmonger's  shop  by  F.  Walker,  or 
W.  Bagot's  little  piebald  piglings,  and 
their  venerable  black  mother,  and  their 
immense  fat  wallowing  pink  papa?  An 
ineffable  charm  of  poetry  and  refinement, 
of  pathos  and  sympathy  and  delicate  hu- 
mor combined,  an  incomparable  ease  and 
grace  and  felicity  of  workmanship, belong 
to  each — and  yet  in  their  work  are  they 
not  as  wide  apart  as  the  poles  ?  each  com- 
plete in  himself  and  yet  a  complement  to 
the  other  ? 


DEMORALIZATION. 


Que  la  terre  leur  soit  leglve  I 
And  who  can  say  that  the  fame  of  one 
is  greater  than  the  other's  ! 

Their  pinnacles  are  twin,  I  venture  to 
believe  —  of  just  an  equal  height  and 
width  and  thickness,  like  their  bodies  in 
this  life;  but  unlike  their  frail  bodies  in 
one  respect:  no  taller  pinnacles  are  to  be 
seen,  methinks,  in  all  the  garden  of  the 
deathless  dead  painters  of  our  time,  and 
none  more  built  to  last! 

But  it  is  not  with  the  art  of  Little  Bil- 
lee,  nor  with  his  fame  as  a  painter,  that 
we  are  chiefly  concerned  in  this  unpre- 
tending little  tale,  except  in  so  far  as 
they  have  some  bearing  on  his  character 
and  his  fate. 

"I  should  like  to  know  the  detailed 
history  of  the  Englishman's  first  love,  and 
how  he  lost  his  innocence!" 

"  Ask  him!" 


828 


HARPER'S    NEW    MONTHLY    MAGAZINE. 


'the  moon-dial. 


"Ask  him  yourself!" 

Thus  Papelard  and  Bouchardy,  on  the 
morning  of  Little  Billee's  first  appearance 
at  Carrel's  studio,  in  the  Rue  des  Potirons 
St! -Michel. 

And  that  is  the  question  the  present 
scribe  is  doing  his  little  best  to  answer. 

A  good-looking,  famous,  well-bred,  and 
well-dressed  youth  finds  that  London  So- 
ciety opens  its  doors  very  readily;  he 
hasn't  long  to  knock;  and  it  would  be 
difficult  to  find  a  youth  more  fortunately 
situated,  handsomer,  more  famous,  better 
dressed  or  better  bred,  more  seemingly 
happy  and  successful,  with  more  attrac- 
tive qualities  and  more  condonable  faults, 
than  Little  Billee,  as  Taffy  and  the  Laird 
found  him  when  they  came  to  London 
after  their  four  or  five  years  in  foreign 
parts— their  Wander jaln*. 

He  had  a  fine  studio  and  a  handsome 
suite  of  rooms  in  Fitzroy  Square.  Beau- 
tiful specimens  of  his  unfinished  work, 
endless  studies,  hung  on  his  studio  walls. 
Everything  else  was  as  nice  as  it  could  be 
—the  furniture,  the  bibelots  and  bric-a- 
brac,  the  artistic  foreign  and  Eastern 
knickknacks  and  draperies  and  hangings 
and  curtains  and  rugs — the  semi-grand 
piano  by  Col  lard  and  Col  lard. 

That  immortal  canvas,  the  "Moon-dial " 
(just  begun,  and  already  commissioned  by 
Moses  Lyon,  the  famous  picture-dealer), 
lay  on  his  easel. 


No  man  worked  hard- 
er and  with  teeth  more 
clenched  than  Little  Bil- 
lee when  he  was  at  work 
— none  rested  or  played 
more  discreetly  when  it 
was  time  to  rest  or  play. 
The  glass  on  his  man- 
tel-piece was  full  of  cards 
of  invitation,  reminders, 
pretty  mauve  and  pink 
and  lilac  scented  notes; 
nor  were  coronets  want- 
ing on  many  of  these  hos- 
pitable little  missives.  He 
had  quite  overcome  his 
fancied  aversion  for  bloat- 
ed dukes  and  lords  and  the 
rest  (we  all  do  sooner  or 
later,  if  things  go  well 
with  us);  especially  for 
their  wives  and  sisters 
and  daughters  and  female 
cousins;  even  their  mo- 
thers and  aunts.  In  point  of  fact,  and  in 
spite  of  his  tender  years,  he  was  in  some 
danger  (for  his  art)  of  developing  into  that 
type  so  adored  by  sympathetic  women  who 
haven't  got  much  to  do:  the  friend,  the 
tame  cat,  the  platonic  lover  (with  many 
loves) — the  squire  of  dames,  the  trusty 
one,  of  whom  husbands  and  brothers 
have  no  fear! — the  delicate  harmless  dil- 
ettante of  Eros — the  dainty  shepherd  who 
dwells  "dans  le  pays  du  tendre!" — and 
stops  there ! 

The  woman  flatters  and  the  man  con- 
fides— and  there  is  no  danger  whatever, 
I'm  told — and  I  am  glad ! 

One  man  loves  his  fiddle  (or,  alas!  his 
neighbor's  sometimes)  for  all  the  melodies 
he  can  wake  from  it — it  is  but  a  selfish 
love! 

Another,  who  is  no  fiddler,  may  love  a 
fiddle  too;  for  its  symmetry,  its  neatness, 
its  color — its  delicate  grainings,  the  love- 
ly lines  and  curves  of  its  back  and  front 
— for  its  own  sake,  so  to  speak.  He  may 
have  a  whole  galleryful  of  fiddles  to 
love  in  this  innocent  way — a  harem! — and 
yet  not  know  a  single  note  of  music,  or 
ever  care  to  hear  one.  He  will  dust 
them  and  stroke  them,  and  take  them 
down  and  try  to  put  them  in  tune — pizzi- 
cato!—and  put  them  back  again,  and  call 
them  ever  such  sweet  little  pet  names: 
viol,  viola,  viola  d'  amore,  viol  di  gamba, 
violino  mio!  and  breathe  his  little  trou- 
bles into  them,  and  they  will  give  back 


TRILBY. 


829 


inaudible  little  murmurs  in  sympathetic 
response,  like  a  damp  iEolian  harp;  but 
he  will  never  draw  a  bow  across  the 
strings,  nor  wake  a  single  chord— or  dis- 
cord! 

And  who  shall  say  he  is  not  wise  in 
his  generation?  It  is  but  an  old-fash- 
ioned philistine  notion  that  fiddles  were 
only  made  to  be  played  on — the  fiddles 
themselves  are  beginning  to  resent  it; 
and  rightly,  I  wot! 

In  this  harmless  fashion  Little  Billee 
was  friends  with  more  than  one  fine  lady 
de  par  le  monde. 

Indeed,  he  had  been  reproached  by  his 
more  bohemian  brothers  of  the  brush  for 
being  something  of  a  tuft-hunter — most 
unjustly.  But  nothing  gives  such  keen 
offence  to  our  unsuccessful  brother,  bohe- 
mian or  bourgeois,  as  our  sudden  inti- 
macy with  the  so-called  great,  the  little 


our  betters !)  should  be  thought  so  price- 
less a  boon,  so  consummate  an  achieve- 
ment, so  crowning  a  glory,  as  all  that! 

"  A  dirty  bit  of  orange  peel, 
The  end  of  a  cigar — 
Once  trod  on  by  a  princely  heel, 
How  beautiful  they  are !" 

Little  Billee  was  no  tuft-hunter — he  was 
the  tuft-hunted,  or  had  been.  No  one 
of  his  kind  was  ever  more  persistently, 
resolutely,  hospitably  harried  than  this 
young  "hare  with  many  friends"  by  peo- 
ple of  rank  and  fashion. 

And  at  first  he  thought  them  most 
charming;  as  they  so  often  are,  these 
graceful,  gracious,  gay,  good-natured  sto- 
ics and  barbarians,  whose  manners  are  as 
easy  and  simple  as  their  morals — but  how 
much  better!  —  and  who,  at  least,  have 
this  charm,  that  they  can  wallow  in  un- 


I  ,1   i 


"DARLINGS   OLD   OB  YOUNG. 


lords  and  ladies  of  this  little  world !  Not 
even  our  fame  and  success,  and  all  the 
joy  and  pride  they  bring  us,  are  so  hard 
to  condone — so  embittering,  so  humilia- 
ting, to  the  jealous  fraternal  heart. 

Alas!  poor  humanity — that  the   mere 
countenance  of  our  betters  (if  they  are 


told  gold  (when  they  happen  to  possess 
it)  without  ever  seeming  to  stink  of  the 
same:  yes,  they  bear  wealth  graceful- 
ly— and  the  want  of  it  more  gracefully 
still!  and  these  are  pretty  accomplish- 
ments that  have  yet  to  be  learnt  by  our 
new  aristocracy  of  the  shop  and  count- 


830 


HARPER'S    NEW    MONTHLY    MAGAZINE. 


ing-house,  Jew  or  gentile, which  is  every- 
where elbowing  its  irresistible  way  to  the 
top  and  front  of  everything,  both  here 
and  abroad. 

Then  he  discovered  that,  much  as  you 
might  be  with  them,  you  could  never  be 
of  them,  unless  perchance  you  managed 
to  hook  on  by  marrying  one  of  their  ugly 
ducklings  —  their  failures — their  rem- 
nants! and  even  then  life  isn't  all  beer 
and  skittles  for  a  rank  outsider,  I'm  told! 
Then  he  discovered  that  he  didn't  want 
to  be  of  them  in  the  least;  especially  at 
such  a  cost  as  that !  and  that  to  be  very 
much  with  them  was  apt  to  pall,  like  ev- 
erything else. 

Also,  he  found  that  they  were  very 
mixed;  good,  bad,  and  indifferent — and 
not  always  very  dainty  or  select  in  their 
predilections,  since  they  took  unto  their 
bosoms  such  queer  outsiders  (just  for  the 
sake  of  being  amused  a  little  while)  that 
their  capricious  favor  ceased  to  be  an 
honor  and  a  glory — if  it  ever  was!  And 
then,  their  fickleness! 

Indeed,  he  found,  or  thought  he  found, 
that  they  could  be  just  as  clever,  as  liber- 
al, as  polite  or  refined — as  narrow,  inso- 
lent, swaggering,  coarse,  and  vulgar — as 
handsome,  as  ugly — as  graceful,  as  un- 
gainly— as  modest  or  conceited,  as  any 
other  upper  class  of  the  community — and 
indeed  some  lower  ones ! 

Beautiful  young  women,  who  had  been 
taught  how  to  paint  pretty  little  land- 
scapes (with  an  ivy-mantled  ruin  in  the 
middle  distance),  talked  technically  of 
painting  to  him,  de  pair  a  pair,  as  though 
they  were  quite  on  the  same  artistic  level, 
and  didn't  mind  admitting  it,  in  spite  of 
the  social  gulf  between. 

Hideous  old  frumps  (osseous  or  obese, 
yet  with  unduly  bared  necks  and  shoul- 
ders that  made  him  sick)  patronized  him 
and  gave  him  good  advice,  and  told  him 
to  emulate  Mr.  Buckner  both  in  his  gen- 
ius and  his  manners — since  Mr.  Buckner 
was  the  only  ''gentleman"  who  ever 
painted  for  hire;  and  they  promised  him, 
in  time,  an  equal  success ! 

Here  and  there  some  sweet  old  darling 
specially  enslaved  him  by  her  kindness, 
grace,  knowledge  of  life,  and  tender  wo- 
manly sympathy,  like  the  dowager  Lady 
Chiselhurst — or  some  sweet  young  one, 
like  the  lovely  Duchess  of  Towers,  by  her 
beauty,  wit,  good-humor,  and  sisterly  in- 
terest in  all  he  did,  and  who  in  some 
vague  distant  manner  constantly  remind- 


ed him  of  Trilby,  although  she  was  such 
a  great  and  fashionable  lady! 

But  just  such  darlings,  old  or  young, 
were  to  be  found,  with  still  higher  ideals, 
in  less  exalted  spheres;  and  were  easier 
of  access,  with  no  impassable  gulf  be- 
tween— spheres  where  there  was  no  pat- 
ronizing, nothing  but  deference  and  warm 
appreciation  and  delicate  flattery,  from 
men  and  women  alike — and  where  the 
aged  Venuses,  whose  prime  was  of  the 
days  of  Waterloo,  went  with  their  histor- 
ical remains  duly  shrouded,  like  ivy-man- 
tled ruins  (and  in  the  middle  distance) ! 

So  he  actually  grew  tired  of  the  great 
before  they  had  time  to  tire  of  him — in- 
credible as  it  may  seem,  and  against  na- 
ture; and  this  saved  him  many  a  heart- 
burning; and  he  ceased  to  be  seen  at 
fashionable  drums  or  gatherings  of  any 
kind,  except  in  one  or  two  houses  where 
he  was  especially  liked  and  made  wel- 
come for  his  own  sake;  such  as  Lord 
Chiselhurst's  in  Piccadilly,  where  the 
"Moon-Dial"  found  a  home  for  a  few 
years,  before  going  to  its  last  home  and 
final  resting-place  in  the  National  Gal- 
lery (R.  I.  P.) ;  or  Baron  Stoppenheim's 
in  Cavendish  Square,  where  many  lovely 
little  water-colors  signed  W.  B.  occupied 
places  of  honor  on  gorgeously  gilded 
walls;  or  the  gorgeously  gilded  bachelor 
rooms  of  Mr.  Moses  Lyon,  the  picture- 
dealer  in  Upper  Conduit  Street — for  Lit- 
tle Billee  (I  much  grieve  to  say  it  of  a 
hero  of  romance)  was  an  excellent  man 
of  business.  That  infinitesimal  dose  of 
the  good  old  Oriental  blood  kept  him 
straight,  and  not  only  made  him  stick  to 
his  last  through  thick  and  thin,  but  also 
to  those  whose  foot  his  last  was  found  to 
match  (for  he  couldn't  or  wouldn't  alter 
his  last). 

He  loved  to  make  as  much  money  as 
he  could,  that  he  might  spend  it  royally 
in  pretty  gifts  to  his  mother  and  sister, 
whom  it  was  his  pleasure  to  load  in  this 
way,  and  whose  circumstances  had  been 
very  much  altered  by  his  quick  success. 
There  was  never  a  more  generous  son  or 
brother  than  Little  Billee  of  the  clouded 
heart,  that  couldn't  love  any  longer! 

As  a  set-off  to  all  these  splendors,  it 
was  also  his  pleasure  now  and  again  to 
study  London  life  at  its  lower  end — the 
eastest  end  of  all.  Whitechapel,  the 
Minories,  the  Docks,  Ratcliffe  Highway, 
Rotherhithe,  soon  got  to  know  him  well, 


THE    CHAIRMAN. 


■and  he  found  much  to  interest  him  and 
much  to  like  among  their  denizens,  and 
made  as  many  friends  there  among  ship- 
carpenters,  excisemen,  longshoremen, 
jack-tars,  and  what  not,  as  in  Bayswater 
and  Belgravia  (or  Bloomsbury). 

He  was  especially  fond  of  frequenting 
singsongs,  or  "free-and-easys,"  where 
good  hard-working  fellows  met  of  an 
evening  to  relax  and  smoke  and  drink 
and  sing — round  a  table  well  loaded 'with 
steaming  tumblers  and  pewter  pots,  at 
one  end  of  which  sits  Mr.  Chairman  in 
all  his  glory,  and  at  the  other  "  Mr.  Vice.1' 
They  are  open  to  any  one  who  can  afford 
a  pipe,  a  screw  of  tobacco,  and  a  pint  of 
beer,  and  who  is  willing  to  do  his  best 
and  sing  a  song. 

No  introduction  is  needed ;  as  soon  as 
any  one  has  seated  himself  and  made  him- 
self comfortable,  Mr.  Chairman  taps  the 
table  with  his  long  clay  pipe,  begs  for 
silence,  and  says  to  his  vis-a-vis:  "Mr. 
Vice,  it  strikes  me  as  the  genTman  as  is 
just  come  in  'as  got  a  singing  face.  Per- 
'aps,  Mr.  Vice,  you'll  be  so  very  kinct*as 
juster  harsk  the  aforesaid  genTman  'to 
oblige  us  with  a  'armony." 

Mr.  Vice  then  puts  it  to  the  new-comer, 
who,  thus  appealed  to,  simulates  a  mod- 
est surprise,  and  finally  professes  his  will- 
ingness, like  Mr.  Barkis;  then,  clearing 
his  throat  a  good  many  times,  looks  up 
to  the  ceiling,  and  after  one  or  two  un- 
successful starts  in  different  keys,  brave- 
ly sings  "Kathleen  Mavourneen,"  let  us 

Vol.  LXXXVIII-No.  528.-79 


say — perhaps  in  a  touchingly  sweet  tenor 
voice — 

"  Kathleen  Mavourneen,  the  gry  dawn  is  brykin', 
The  'orn  of  the  'unter  is  'eard  on  the  'ill."  .  .  . 

And  Little  Billee  didn't  mind  the  drop- 
ping of  all  these  aitches  if  the  voice  was 
sympathetic  and  well  in  tune,  and  the 
sentiment  simple,  tender,  and  sincere. 

Or  else,  with  a  good  rolling  jingo  bass, 
it  was, 

"'Earts   o'   hoak    are    our    ships;    'earts    o'    hoak 
are  our  men; 
And    we'll    fight    and    we'll   conkwer   agen    and 
agen !" 

And  no  imperfection  of  accent,  in  Little 
Billee's  estimation,  subtracted  one  jot 
from  the  manly  British  pluck  that  found 
expression  in  these  noble  sentiments — nor 
added  one  tittle  to  their  swaggering,  bla- 
tant, and  idiotically  aggressive  vulgarity! 

Well,  the  song  finishes  with  general 
applause  all  round.  Then  the  chairman 
says,  "Your  'ealth  and  song,  sir!"  And 
drinks,  and  all  do  the  same. 

Then  Mr.  Vice  asks,  "What  shall  we 
'ave  the  pleasure  of  saying,  sir,  after  that 
very  nice  'armony?" 

And  the  blushing  vocalist,  if  he  knows 
the  ropes,  replies,  "  A  roast  leg  o'  mutton 
in  Newgate,  and  nobody  to  eat  it!"  Or 
else,  "May  'im  as  is  going  up  the  'ill  o' 
prosperity  never  meet  a  friend  coming 
down!"  Or  else,  " 'Ere's  to  'er  as  shares 
our  sorrers  and  doubles  our  joys!"  Or 
else,  "'Ere's  to  'er  as  shares  our  joys  and 
doubles  our  expenses !"  and  so  forth. 


832 


HARPER'S    NEW    MONTHLY    MAGAZINE. 


More  drink,  more  applause,  and  many 
'ear,  'ears.  And  Mr.  Vice  says  to  the 
singer:  "Your  call,  sir.  Will  you  be  so 
good  as  to  call  on  some  other  genTman 
for  a  'armony?"  And  so  the  evening 
goes  on. 

And  nobody  was  more  quickly  popular 
at  such  gatherings,  or  sang  better  songs, 
or  proposed  more  touching  sentiments,  or 
filled  either  chair  or  vice-chair  with  more 
grace  and  dignity  than  Little  Billee.  Not 
even  Dodor  or  l'Zouzou  could  have  beat- 
en him  at  that. 

And  he  was  as  happy,  as  genial,  and 
polite,  as  much  at  his  ease,  in  these  hum- 
ble gatherings  as  in  the  gilded  saloons  of 
the  great,  where  grand  -  pianos  are,  and 
hired  accompanists,  and  highly  paid  sing- 
ers, and  a  good  deal  of  talk  while  they 
sing. 

So  his  powers  of  quick,  wide,  universal 
sympathy  grew  and  grew,  and  made  up 
to  him  a  little  for  his  lost  power  of  being 
specially  fond  of  special  individuals.  For 
he  made  no  close  friends  among  men, 
and  ruthlessly  snubbed  all  attempts  at 
intimacy — all  advances  towards  an  affec- 
tion which  he  felt  he  could  not  return; 
and  more  than  one  enthusiastic  admirer 
of  his  talent  and  his  charm  was  forced 
to  acknowledge  that,  with  all  his  gifts, 
he  seemed  heartless  and  capricious;  as 
ready  to  drop  you  as  he  had  been  to  take 
you  up. 

He  loved  to  be  wherever  he  could  meet 
his  kind,  high  or  low;  and  felt  as  happy 
on  a  penny  steamer  as  on  the  yacht  of  a 
millionaire — on  the  crowded  knife-board 
of  an  omnibus  as  on  the  box-seat  of  a  no- 
bleman's drag — happier;  he  liked  to  feel 
the  warm  contact  of  his  fellow-man  at 
either  shoulder  and  at  his  back,  and  didn't 
object  to  a  little  honest  grime!  And  I 
think  all  this  genial  caressing  love  of  his 
kind,  this  depth  and  breadth  of  human 
sympathy,  are  patent  in  all  his  work. 

On  the  whole,  however,  he  came  to  pre- 
fer for  society  that  of  the  best  and  clev- 
erest of  his  own  class— those  who  live 
and  prevail  by  the  professional  exercise 
of  their  own  specially  trained  and  highly 
educated  wits,  the  skilled  workmen  of  the 
brain — from  the  Lord  Chief  Justice  of 
England  downwards — the  salt  of  the 
earth,  in  his  opinion:  and  stuck  to  them. 

There  is  no  class  so  genial  and  sympa- 
thetic as  our  own,  in  the  long-run— even 
if  it  be  but  the  criminal  class!  none 
where  the  welcome  is  likely  to  be  so  gen- 


uine and  sincere,  so  easy  to  win,  so  dif- 
ficult to  outstay,  if  we  be  but  decently 
pleasant  and  successful;  none  where  the 
memory  of  us  will  be  kept  so  green  (if 
we  leave  any  memory  at  all!). 

So  Little  Billee  found  it  expedient, 
when  he  wanted  rest  and  play,  to  seek 
them  at  the  houses  of  those  whose  rest 
and  play  were  like  his  own — little  halts 
in  a  seeming  happy  life-journey,  full  of 
toil  and  strain  and  endeavor;  oases  of 
sweet  water  and  cooling  shade,  where  the 
food  was  good  and  plentiful,  though  the 
tents  might  not  be  of  cloth  of  gold ;  where 
the  talk  was  of  something  more  to  his 
taste  than  court  or  sport  or  narrow  party 
politics;  the  new  beauty;  the  coming 
match  of  the  season;  the  coming  ducal 
conversion  to  Rome;  the  last  elopement 
in  high  life — the  next!  and  where  the 
music  was  that  of  the  greatest  music- 
makers  that  can  be,  who  found  rest  and 
play  in  making  better  music  for  love 
than  they  ever  made  for  hire — and  were 
listened  to  as  they  should  be,  with  under- 
standing and  religious  silence,  and  all  the 
fervent  gratitude  they  deserved. 

There  were  several  such  houses  in  Lon- 
don then — and  are  still — thank  Heaven! 
And  Little  Billee  had  his  little  billet  there 
— and  there  he  was  wont  to  drown  him- 
self in  waves  of  lovely  sound,  or  streams 
of  clever  talk,  or  rivers  of  sweet  feminine 
adulation,  seas!  oceans! — a  somewhat  re- 
laxing bath ! — and  forget  for  a  while  his 
everlasting  chronic  plague  of  heart-in- 
sensibility, which  no  doctor  could  explain 
or  cure,  and  to  which  he  was  becoming 
gradually  resigned — as  one  does  to  deaf- 
ness or  blindness  or  locomotor  ataxia — 
for  it  had  lasted  nearly  five  years!  But 
now  and  again,  during  sleep,  and  in  a 
blissful  dream,  the  lost  power  of  loving 
— of  loving  mother,  sister,  friend — would 
be  restored  to  him;  just  as  with  a  blind 
man  who  sometimes  dreams  he  has  recov- 
ered his  sight;  and  the  joy  of  it  would 
wake  him  to  the  sad  reality:  till  he  got 
to  know,  even  in  his  dream,  that  he  was 
only  dreaming,  after  all,  whenever  that 
priceless  boon  seemed  to  be  his  own  once 
more — and  did  his  utmost  not  to  wake. 
And  these  were  nights  to  be  marked  with 
a  white  stone,  and  remembered  ! 

And  nowhere  was  he  happier  than  at 
the  houses  of  the  great  surgeons  and  phy- 
sicians who  interested  themselves  in  his 
strange  disease.  When  the  Little  Billees 
of  this  world  fall  ill,  the  great  surgeons 


A    HAPPY    DINNER. 


and  physicians  (like  the  great  singers  and 
musicians)  do  better  for  them,  out  of 
mere  love  and  kindness,  than  for  the 
princes  of  the  earth,  who  pay  them  thou- 
sand-guinea fees  and  load  them  with 
honors. 

And  of  all  these  notable  London  houses 
none  was  pleasanter  than  that  of  Corne- 
lys  the  great  sculptor,  and  Little  Billee 
was  such  a  favorite  in  that  house  that  he 
was  able  to  take  his  friends  Taffy  and 
the  Laird  there  the  very  day  they  came 
to  London. 

First  of  all  they  dined  together  at  a 
delightful  little  Franco-Italian  pothouse 
near  Leicester  Square,  where  they  had 
bouillabaisse  (imagine  the  Laird's  de- 
light), and  spaghetti,  and  a  poulet  roti, 
which  is  such  a  different  affair  from  a 
roast  fowl!  and  salad,  which  Taffy  was 
allowed  to  make  and  mix  himself;  and 
they  all  smoked  just  where  they  sat,  the 
moment  they  had  swallowed  their  food — 
as  had  been  their  way  in  the  good  old 
Paris  days. 

That  dinner  was  a  happy  one  for  Taffy 
and  the  Laird,  with  their  Little  Billee  ap- 
parently unchanged — as  demonstrative, 
as  genial,  and  caressing  as  ever,  and  with 
no  swagger  to  speak  of;  and  with  so 
many  things  to  talk  about  that  were  new 


to  them,  and  of  such  delightful  interest! 
They  also  had  much  to  say — but  they 
didn't  say  very  much  about  Paris,  for 
fear  of  waking  up  Heaven  knows  what 
sleeping  dogs! 

And  every  now  and  again,  in  the  midst 
of  all  this  pleasant  foregathering  and  com- 
munion of  long-parted  friends,  the  pangs 
of  Little  Billee's  miserable  mind-malady 
would  shoot  through  him  like  poisoned 
arrows. 

He  would  catch  himself  thinking  how 
fat  and  fussy  and  serious  about  trifles 
Taffy  had  become;  and  what  a  shiftless, 
feckless,  futile  duffer  was  the  Laird;  and 
how  greedy  they  both  were,  and  how  red 
and  coarse  their  ears  and  gills  and  cheeks 
grew  as  they  fed,  and  how  shiny  their 
faces;  and  how  little  he  would  care,  try 
as  he  might,  if  they  both  fell  down  dead 
under  the  table!  And  this  would  make 
him  behave  more  caressingly  to  them, 
more  genially  and  demonstratively  than 
ever — for  he  knew  it  was  all  a  grewsome 
physical  ailment  of  his  own,  which  he 
could  no  more  help  than  a  cataract  in  his 
eye! 

Then,  catching  sight  of  his  own  face 
and  form  in  a  mirror,  he  would  curse 
himself  for  a  puny,  misbegotten  shrimp, 
an  imp — an  abortion — no  bigger,  by  the 
side  of  the  herculean  Taffy  or  the  burly 


834 


HARPER'S    NEW    MONTHLY    MAGAZINE. 


Laird  of  Cockpen,  than  six-pennorth  o' 
halfpence:  a  wretched  little  overrated 
follower  of  a  poor  trivial  craft — a  mere 
light  amuser!  For  what  did  pictures 
matter,  or  whether  they  were  good  or 
bad,  except  to  the  triflers  who  painted 
them,  the  dealers  who  sold  them,  the  idle, 
uneducated, purse-proud  fools  who  bought 
them  and  stuck  them  up  on  their  walls  be- 
cause they  were  told ! 

And  he  felt  that  if  a  dynamite  shell 
were  beneath  the  table  where  they  sat, 
and  its  fuse  were  smoking  under  their  very 
noses,  he  would  neither  wish  to  warn  his 
friends  nor  move  himself.  He  didn't  care 
a ! 

And  all  this  made  him  so  lively  and 
brilliant  in  his  talk,  so  fascinating  and 
droll  and  witty,  that  Taffy  and  the  Laird 
wondered  at  the  improvement  success  and 
the  experience  of  life  had  wrought  in 
him,  and  marvelled  at  the  happiness  of 
his  lot,  and  almost  found  it  in  their  warm 
affectionate  hearts  to  feel  a  touch  of 
envy! 

Oddly  enough,  in  a  brief  flash  of  si- 
lence, "  entre  la  poire  et  le  fromage,"  they 
heard  a  foreigner  at  an  adjoining  table 
(one  of  a  very  noisy  group)  exclaim: 
"  Mais  quand  je  vous  dis  que  jTai  enten- 
due,  moi,  la  Svengali!  et  meme  qu'elle  a 
chante  l'lmpromptu  de  Chopin  absolu- 
ment  comme  si  c'etait  uu  piano  qu'on 
jouait!  voyons!  .  .  ." 

"Farceur!  la  bonne  blague!"  said  an- 
other— and  then  the  conversation  became 
so  noisily  general  it  was  no  good  listen- 
ing any  more. 

''Svengali!  how  funny  that  name 
should  turn  up !  I  wonder  what's  become 
of  our  Svengali,  by-the-way?"  observed 
Taffy. 

"I  remember  his  playing  Chopin's 
Impromptu,"  said  Little  Billee;  "  what  a 
singular  coincidence!" 

There  were  to  be  more  coincidences  that 
night;  it  never  rains  them  but  it  pours! 

So  our  three  friends  finished  their  coffee 
and  liqueured  up,  and  went  to  Cornelys's, 
three  in  a  hansom — 

"Like  Mars, 
A-9mokin'  their  poipes  and  cigyars." 

Sir  Louis  Cornelys,  as  everybody 
knows,  lives  in  a  palace  on  Campden 
Hill,  a  house  of  many  windows;  and 
whichever  window  he  looks  out  of,  he 
sees  his  own  garden  and  very  little  else. 
In  spite  of  his  eighty  years,  he  works 
as  hard  as  ever,  and  his  hand  has  lost  but 


little  of  its  cunning.  But  he  no  longer 
gives  those  splendid  parties  that  made 
him  almost  as  famous  a  host  as  he  was 
an  artist. 

When  his  beautiful  wife  died  he  shut 
himself  up  from  the  world;  and  now  he 
never  stirs  out  of  his  house  and  grounds 
except  to  fulfil  his  duties  at  the  Royal 
Academy  and  dine  once  a  year  with  the 
Queen.  • 

It  was  very  different  in  the  early  six- 
ties. There  was  no  pleasanter  or  more 
festive  house  than  his  in  London,  winter 
or  summer — no  lordlier  host  than  he — no 
more  irresistible  hostesses  than  Lady  Cor- 
nelys and  her  lovely  daughters;  and  if 
ever  music  had  a  right  to  call  itself  divine, 
it  was  there  you  heard  it — on  late  Satur- 
day nights  during  the  London  season — 
when  the  foreign  birds  of  song  come  over 
to  reap  their  harvest  in  London  Town. 

It  was  on  one  of  the  most  brilliant  of 
these  Saturday  nights  that  Taffy  and  the 
Laird,  chaperoned  by  Little  Billee,  made 
their  debut  at  Mechelen  Lodge,  and  were 
received  at  the  door  of  the  immense  music- 
room  by  a  tall  powerful  man  with  splen- 
did eyes  and  a  gray  beard,  and  a  small 
velvet  cap  on  his  head — and  by  a  Greek 
matron  so  beautiful  and  stately  and  mag- 
nificently attired  that  they  felt  inclined 
to  sink  them  on  their  bended  knees  as  in 
the  presence  of  some  overwhelming  East- 
ern royalty  —  and  were  only  prevented 
from  doing  so,  perhaps,  by  the  simple, 
sweet,  and  cordial  graciousness  of  her 
welcome. 

And  whom  should  they  be  shaking 
hands  with  next  but  Sibley,  Lorrimer, 
and  the  Greek — with  each  a  beard  and 
mustache  of  nearly  five  years'  growth! 

But  they  had  no  time  for  much  exuber- 
ant greeting,  for  there  was  a  sudden  piano 
crash — and  then  an  immediate  silence,  as 
though  for  pins  to  drop  —  and  Signor 
Giuglini  and  the  wondrous  maiden  Ade- 
lina  Patti  sang  the  Miserere  out  of  Si- 
gnor Verdi's  most  famous  opera — to  the 
delight  of  all  but  a  few  very  superior 
ones  who  had  just  read  Mendelssohn's 
letters  (or  misread  them)  and  despised 
Italian  music;  and  thought  cheaply  of 
"mere  virtuosity, "either  vocal  or  instru- 
mental. 

When  this  was  over,  Little  Billee  point- 
ed out  all  the  lions  to  his  friends — from 
the  Prime  Minister  down  to  the  present 
scribe — who  was  right  glad  to  meet  them 
again  and  talk  of  auld  lang  syne,  and 


TRILBY. 


835 


present  them  to  the  daughters  of  the  house 
and  other  charming  ladies. 

Then  Roucouly,  the  great  French  bary- 
tone, sang  Durien's  favorite  song, 

"  Plaisir  d'amour  ne  dure  qu'un  moment ; 
Chagrin  d'amour  dure  toute  la  vie.  .  .  ." 

with  quite  a  little  drawing-room  voice, 
— but  quite  as  divinely  as  he  had  sung 


absolute  forgetfulness  of  themselves — so 
that  if  you  weren't  up  to  Bach,  you  didn't 
have  a  very  good  time ! 

But  if  you  were  (or  wished  it  to  be  un- 
derstood or  thought  you  were),  you  seized  , 
your  opportunity  and  you  scored;  and  by 
the  earnestness  of  your  rapt  and  tranced 
immobility,  and  the  stony  gorgonlike  in- 
tensity of   your  gaze,  you   rebuked   the 


A-SMOKIN    THEIR   POIPES   AND   CIGYARS. 


"Noel,  noel,"  at  the  Madeleine  in  full 
blast  one  certain  Christmas  eve  our  three 
friends  remembered  well. 

Then  there  was  a  violin  solo  by  young 
Joachim,  then  as  now  the  greatest  violin- 
ist of  his  time;  and  a  solo  on  the  piano- 
forte by  Madame  Schumann,  his  only 
peeress!  and  these  came  as  a  wholesome 
check  to  the  levity  of  those  for  whom  all 
music  is  but  an  agreeable  pastime,  a  mere 
emotional  delight,  in  which  the  intellect 
has  no  part;  and  also  as  a  well -deserved 
humiliation  to  all  virtuosi  who  play  so 
charmingly  that  they  make  their  listen- 
ers forget  the  master  who  invented  the 
music  in  the  lesser  master  who  interprets 
it! 

For  these  two — man  and  woman — the 
highest  of  their  kind,  never  let  you  for- 
get it  was  Sebastian  Bach  they  were  play- 
ing— playing   in   absolute   perfection,  in 


frivolous — as  you  had  rebuked  them  be- 
fore by  the  listlessness  and  carelessness 
of  your  bored  resignation  to  the  Signorina 
Patti's  trills  and  fioritures,  or  M.  Rou- 
couly's  pretty  little  French  mannerisms. 

And  what  added  so  much  to  the  charm 
of  this  delightful  concert  was  that  the 
guests  were  not  packed  together  sardine- 
wise,  as  they  are  at  most  concerts ;  they 
were  comparatively  few  and  well  chosen, 
and  could  get  up  and  walk  about  and 
talk  to  their  friends  between  the  pieces, 
and  wander  off  into  other  rooms  and  look 
at  endless  beautiful  things,  and  stroll  in 
the  lovely  grounds,  by  moon  or  star  or 
Chinese-lantern  light. 

And  there  the  frivolous  could  sit  and 
chat  and  laugh  and  flirt  when  Bach  was 
being  played  inside;  and  the  earnest  wan- 
der up  and  down  together  in  soul-com- 
munion, through    darkened    walks    and 


836 


HARPER'S    NEW    MONTHLY   MAGAZINE. 


groves  and  alleys  where  the  sound  of 
French  or  Italian  warblings  could  not 
reach  them,  and  talk  in  earnest  tones  of 
the  great  Zola,  or  Guy  de  Maupassant 
and  Pierre  Loti,  and  exult  in  beautiful 
English  over  the  inferiority  of  English 
literature,  English  art,  English  music, 
English  everything  else. 

For  these  high-minded  ones  who  can 
only  bear  the  sight  of  classical  pictures 
and  the  sound  of  classical  music  do  not 
necessarily  read  classical  books  in  any 
language — no  Shakespeares  or  Dantes  or 
Molieres  or  Goethes  for  them.  They  know 
a  trick  worth  two  of  that ! 

And  the  mere  fact  that  these  three  im- 
mortal French  writers  of  light  books  I 
have  just  named  had  never  been  heard 
of  at  this  particular  period  doesn't  very 
much  matter;  they  had  cognate  prede- 
cessors whose  names  I  happen  to  forget. 
Any  stick  will  do  to  beat  a  dog  with,  and 
history  is  always  repeating  itself. 

Feydeau,  or  Flaubert,  let  us  say — or  for 
those  who  don't  know  French  and  culti- 
vate an  innocent  mind,  Miss  Austen 
(for  to  be  dead  and  buried  is  almost  as 
good  as  to  be  French  and  immoral!) — 
and  Sebastian  Bach,  and  Sandro  Bot- 
ticelli— that  all  the  arts  should  be  rep- 
resented. These  names  are  rather  dis- 
crepant, but  they  made  very  good  sticks 
for  dog-beating;  and  with  a  thorough 
knowledge  and  appreciation  of  these  (or 
the  semblance  thereof),  you  were  well 
equipped  in  those  days  to  hold  your  own 
among  the  elect  of  intellectual  London 
circles,  and  snub  the  philistine  to  rights. 

Then,  very  late,  a  tall,  good-looking, 
swarthy  foreigner  came  in,  with  a  roll  of 
music  in  his  hands,  and  his  entrance 
made  quite  a  stir;  you  heard  all  round, 
u  Here's  Glorioli,"  or  k'  Ecco  Glorioli,"  or 
"  Voici  Glorioli,"  till  Glorioli  got  on  your 
nerves.  And  beautiful  ladies,  ambassa- 
dresses, female  celebrities  of  all  kinds, 
fluttered  up  to  him  and  cajoled  and 
fawned; — as  Svengali  would  have  said, 
"Prinzessen,  Comtessen,  Serene  English 
Altessen  !" — and  they  soon  forgot  their 
Highness  and  their  Serenity  ! 

For  with  very  little  pressing  Glorioli 
stood  up  on  the  platform,  with  his  accom- 
panist by  his  side  at  the  piano,  and  in  his 
hands  a  sheet  of  music,  at  which  he  never 
looked.  He  looked  at  the  beautiful  la- 
dies, and  ogled  and  smiled;  and  from  his 
scarcely  parted,  moist,  thick,  bearded  lips, 
which  he  always  licked  before  singing, 


there  issued  the  most  ravishing  sounds 
that  had  ever  been  heard  from  throat  of 
man  or  woman  or  boy !  He  could  sing 
both  high  and  low  and  soft  and  loud,  and 
the  f rivolous  were  bewitched,  as  was  only 
to  be  expected ;  but  even  the  earnestest  of 
all,  caught,  surprised,  rapt,  astounded, 
shaken,  tickled,  teased,  harrowed,  tor- 
tured, tantalized,  aggravated,  seduced,  de- 
moralized, corrupted  into  naturalness, 
forgot  to  dissemble  their  delight. 

And  Sebastian  Bach  (the  especially 
adored  of  all  really  great  musicians,  and 
also,  alas!  of  many  priggish  outsiders 
who  don't  know  a  single  note  and  can't 
remember  a  single  tune)  was  well  for- 
gotten for  the  night;  and  who  were  more 
enthusiastic  than  the  two  great  players 
who  had  been  playing  Bach  that  even- 
ing? For  these,  at  all  events,  were  broad 
and  catholic  and  sincere,  and  knew  what 
was  beautiful,  whatever  its  kind. 

It  was  but  a  simple  little  song  that 
Glorioli  sang,  as  light  and  pretty  as  it 
could  well  be,  almost  worthy  of  the  words 
it  was  written  to,  and  the  words  are  De 
Musset's;  and  I  love  them  so  much  I  can- 
not resist  the  temptation  of  setting  them 
down  here,  for  the  mere  sensuous  delight 
of  writing  them,  as  though  I  had  just 
composed  them  myself: 

"Bon jour,  Snzon,  ma  fleur  des  bois ! 
Es-tu  toujours  la  plus  jolie  ? 
Je  reviens,  tel  que  tu  me  vois, 
D'un  grand  voyage  en  Italie  ! 
Du  paradis  j'ai  fait  le  tour — 
J'ai  fait  des  vers — j'ai  fait  l'amour. . . . 
Mais  que  t'importe! 
Mais  que  t'importe! 
Je  passe  devant  ta  maison : 
Ouvre  ta  porte ! 
Ouvre  ta  porte! 
Bonjour,  Suzon ! 

"Je  t'ai  vue  au  temps  des  lilas. 
Ton  coeur  joyeux  venait  d'eclore, 
Et  tu  disais :  '  je  ne  veux  pas, 

Je  ne  veux  pas  qu'on  m'aime  encore.' 
Qu'as-tu  fait  depuis  mon  depart? 
Qui  part  trop  tot  revient  trop  tard. 
Mais  que  m'importe? 
Mais  que  m'importe? 
Je  passe  devant  ta  maison : 
Ouvre  ta  porte ! 
Ouvre  ta  porte! 
Bonjour,  Suzon !" 

And  when  it  began,  and  while  it  lasted, 
and  after  it  was  over,  one  felt  really  sorry 
for  all  the  other  singers.  And  nobody 
sang  any  more  that  night;  for  Glorioli 
was  tired  and  wouldn't  sing  again,  and 
none  were  bold  enough  or  disinterested 
enough  to  sing  after  him. 


838 


HARPER'S   NEW    MONTHLY    MAGAZINE. 


Some  of  my  readers  may  remember  that 
meteoric  bird  of  song,  who,  though  a  mere 
amateur,  would  condescend  to  sing  for  a 
hundred  guineas  in  the  saloons  of  the 
great  (as  Monsieur  Jourdain  sold  cloth) ; 
who  would  sing  still  better  for  love  and 
glory  in  the  studios  of  his  friends. 

For  Glorioli — the  biggest,  handsomest, 
and  most  distinguished-looking  Jew  that 
ever  was — one  of  the  Sephardim  (one  of 
the  Seraphim !) — hailed  from  Spain,  where 
he  was  junior  partner  in  the  great  firm 
of  Morales,  Pe rales,  Gonzales,  and  Glori- 
oli, wine  -  merchants,  Malaga.  He  trav- 
elled for  his  own  firm ;  his  wine  was  good, 
and  he  sold  much  of  it  in  England.  But 
his  voice  would  bring  him  far  more  gold 
in  the  month  he  spent  here ;  for  his  wines 
have  been  equalled — even  surpassed — but 
there  was  no  voice  like  his  anywhere  in 
the  world,  and  no  more  finished  singer. 

Anyhow,  his  voice  got  into  Little  Bil- 
lee's  head  more  than  any  wine,  and  the 
boy  could  talk  of  nothing  else  for  days 
and  weeks;  and  was  so  exuberant  in  his 
expressions  of  delight  and  gratitude  that 
the  great  singer  took  a  real  fancy  to  him 
(especially  when  he  was  told  that  this 
fervent  boyish  admirer  was  one  of  the 
greatest  of  English  painters) ;  and  as  a 
mark  of  his  esteem,  privately  confided  to 
him  after  supper  that  every  century  two 
human  nightingales  were  born — only  two ! 
a  male  and  a  female;  and  that  he,  Glo- 
rioli, was  the  representative  "male  ros- 
signol  of  this  soi-disant  dix-neuvieme 
siecle." 

"  I  can  well  believe  that!  And  the  fe- 
male, your  mate  that  should  be — la  ros- 
signolle,  if  there  is  such  a  word?1'  inquired 
Little  Billee. 

"Ah!  mon  ami it  was  Alboni,  till 

la  petite  Adelina  Patti  came  out  a  year  or 
two  ago;  and  now  it  is  la  Svengali" 

"La  Svengali?" 

"  Oui,  mon  fy !  You  will  hear  her  some 
day— et  vous  m'en  direz  des  nouvelles!" 

"  Why,  you  don't  mean  to  say  that 
she's  got  a  better  voice  than  Madame  Al- 
boni?1' 

"Mon  ami,  an  apple  is  an  excellent 
thing — until  you  have  tried  a  peach !  Her 
voice  to  that  of  Alboni  is  as  a  peach  to  an 
apple— I  give  you  my  word  of  honor!  but 
bah !  the  voice  is  a  detail.  It's  what  she 
does  with  it — it's  incredible!  it  gives  one 
cold  all  down  the  back  !  it  drives  you 
mad !  it  makes  you  weep  hot  tears  by  the 
spoonful !     Ah !  the  tear,  mon  fy !  tenez ! 


I  can  draw  everything  but  that !  Qa  n'est 
pas  dans  mes  cordes !  /can  only  madden 
with  love  !  But  la  Svengali  ! .  .  . .  And 
then,  in  the  middle  of  it  all,  prrrout ! . .  . .  • 
she  makes  you  laugh !  Ah !  le  beau  rire  I 
faire  rire  avec  des  larmes  plein  les  yeux 
— voila  qui  me  passe ! . . . .  Mon  ami,  when 
I  heard  her  it  made  me  swear  that  even 
/  would  never  try  to  sing  any  more — it 
seemed  too  absurd !  and  I  kept  my  word 
for  a  month  at  least — and  you  know,  je 
sais  ce  que  je  vaux,  moi !" 

"  You  are  talking  of  la  Svengali, I  bet," 
said  Signore  Spartia. 

"  Oui,  parbleu !     You  have  heard  her  ?" 

"  Yes — at  Vienna  last  winter,"  rejoined 
the  greatest  singing-master  in  the  world. 
"  J'en  suis  fou  !  helas!  I  thought  Jcould 
teach  a  woman  how  to  sing,  till  I  heard 
that  blackguard  Svengali's  pupil.  He  has 
married  her,  they  say!" 

"That  blackguard  Svengali!"  ex- 
claimed Little  Billee . . . .  "  why,  that  must 
be  a  Svengali  I  knew  in  Paris — a  famous 
pianist!  a  friend  of  mine!" 

"That's  the  man!  also  une  fameuse 
crapule  (sauf  vot'  respect) ;  his  real  name 
is  Adler;  his  mother  was  a  Polish  singer; 
and  he  was  a  pupil  at  the  Leipzic  Conser- 
vatory. But  he's  an  immense  artist,  and 
a  great  singing-master,  to  teach  a  wo- 
man like  that!  and  such  a  woman!  belle 
comme  un  ange — mais  bete  commeun  pot. 
I  tried  to  talk  to  her — all  she  can  say  is  '  ja 
wohl,'  or  'doch,'  or'nein,'  or 'soli'!  not 
a  word  of  English  or  French  or  Italian, 
though  she  sings  them,  oh!  but  divinely  ! 
It  is  '  il  bel  canto '  come  back  to  the  world 
after  a  hundred  years . .  . . " 

"But  what  voice  is  it?"  asked  Little 
Billee. 

"Every  voice  a  mortal  woman  can 
have — three  octaves — four!  and  of  such 
a  quality  that  people  who  can't  tell  one 
tune  from  another  cry  with  pleasure  at 
the  mere  sound  of  it  directly  they  hear 
her;  just  like  anybody  else.  Everything 
that  Paganini  could  do  with  his  violin, 
she  does  with  her  voice— only  better — and 
what  a  voice !  un  vrai  baume !" 

"  Now  I  don't  mind  petting  zat  you  are 
schbeaking  of  la  Sfencali,"  said  Herr 
Kreutzer,  the  famous  composer,  joining 
in.  "Quelle  merfeille,  hein?  I  heard 
her  in  St.  Betersburg,  at  ze  Vinter  Balace. 
Ze  vomen  all  vent  mat,  and  pulled  off 
zeir  bearls  and  tiamonts  and  kave  zem  to 
her— vent  town  on  zeir  knees  and  gried 
and  gissed  her  hants.  i  She  tit  not  say 


TRILBY. 


83£ 


vim  vort !  She  tit  not  efen  schmile !  Ze 
men  schnifelled  in  ze  gorners,  and  looked 
at  ze  bictures,  and  tissempled — efen  I,  Jo- 
hann  Kreutzer!  efen  ze  Emperor!" 

"'You're  joking,"  said  Little  Billee. 

"  My  vrent,  I  neffer  choke  ven  I  talk 
apout  zinging.  You  vill  hear  her  zum 
tay  yourzellof,  and  you  vill  acree  viz  me 
zat  zere  are  two  classes  of  beoble  who 
zing.  In  ze  vun  class,  la  Sfencali;  in  ze 
ozzer,  all  ze  ozzer  zingers!" 

"And  does  she  sing  good  music?" 

"  I  ton't  know.  All  music  is  koot  ven 
she  zings  it.  I  forket  ze  zong:  I  can  only 
sink  of  ze  zinger.  Any  koot  zinger  can 
zing  a  peautiful  zong  and  kif  Measure, 
I  zubboce !  But  I  voot 
zooner  hear  la  Sfencali 
zing  a  scale  zan  any- 
potty  else  zing  ze  most 
peautiful  zong  in  ze 
vorldt — efen  vun  of  my 
own !  Zat  is  berhaps 
how  zung  ze  crate  Ital- 
ian zingers  of  ze  last 
century.  It  was  a  lost 
art,  and  she  has  found 
it;  and  she  must  haf 
pecun  to  zingpefore  she 
pecan  to  schpeak  —  or 
else  she  voot  not  haf 
hat  ze  time  to  learn  all 
zat  she  knows,  for  she 
is  not  yet  zirty !  She 
zings  in  Paris  in  Ogdo- 
per,  Gott  sei  dank !  and 
gums  here  after  Christ- 
mas to  zing  at  Trury 
Lane.  Chullienkifsher 
ten  sousand  bounts!" 

"  I      wonder,     now! 
Why,  that  must  be  the 
woman  I  heard  at  War- 
saw two  years  ago — or 
three, "  said  young  Lord 
Witlow.       "It   was   at 
Count  Siloszech's.   He'd 
heard  her  sing  in  the 
streets,  with  a  tall  black- 
bearded     ruffian,     who 
accompanied  her  on  a 
guitar,  and   a  little   fiddling   gypsy   fel- 
low.    She  was  a  handsome  woman,  with 
hair  down  to   her  knees,  but  stupid   as 
an    owl.      She   sang   at   Siloszech's,  and 
all  the  fellows  went  mad  and  gave  her 
their  watches  and  diamond  studs  and  gold 
scarf-pins.     By  gad !  I  never  heard  or  saw 
anything  like  it.     I   don't  know  much 


about  music  myself — couldn't  tell  '  God 
save  the  Queen'  from  'Pop  goes  the  wea- 
sel,' if  the  people  didn't  get  up  and  stand 
and  take  their  hats  off;  but  I  was  as  mad 
as  the  rest — why,  I  gave  her  a  little  Ger- 
man silver  vinaigrette  I'd  just  bought  for 
my  wife;  hanged  if  I  didn't — and  I  was 
only  just  married,  you  know  !  It's  the  pe- 
culiar twang  of  her  voice,  I  suppose !" 

And  hearing  all  this,  Little  Billee  made 
up  his  mind  that  life  had  still  something 
in  store  for  him,  since  he  would  some 
day  hear  la  Svengali.  Anyhow,  he 
wouldn't  shoot  himself  till  then ! 

Thus  the  night  wore  itself  away.     The 


A   HUMAN    NIGHTINGALE. 


Prinzessen ,  Comtessen ,  and  Serene  English 
Altessen  (and  other  ladies  of  less  exalted 
rank)  departed  home  in  cabs  and  car- 
riages; and  hostess  and  daughters  went 
to  bed.  Late  sitters  of  the  ruder  sex 
supped  again,  and  smoked  and  chatted 
and  listened  to  comic  songs  and  recita- 
tions by  celebrated  actors.     Noble  dukes 


840 


HARPER'S    NEW    MONTHLY   MAGAZINE. 


CUP   AND   BALL. 


hobnobbed  with  low  comedians;  world- 
famous  painters  and  sculptors  sat  at  the 
feet  of  Hebrew  capitalists  and  aitchless 
millionaires.  Judges,  cabinet  ministers, 
eminent  physicians,  and  warriors  and  phi- 
losophers saw  Sunday  morning  steal  over 
Campden  Hill  and  through  the  many 
windows  of  Mechelen  Lodge,  and  listened 
to  the  pipe  of  half-awakened  birds,  and 
smelt  the  freshness  of  the  dark  summer 
dawn.  And  as  Taffy  and  the  Laird 
walked  home  to  the  Old  Hummums  by 
daylight,  they  felt  that  last  night  was 
ages  ago,  and  that  since  then  they  had 
forgathered  with  "  much  there  was  of  the 
best  in  London."  And  then  they  reflect- 
ed that  "much  there  was  of  the  best  in 
London  "  were  still  strangers  to  them — 
except  by  reputation — for  there  had  not 
been  time  for  many  introductions:  and 
this  had  made  them  feel  a  little  out  of  it; 
and  they  found  they  hadn't  had  such  a 
very  good  time  after  all.    And  there  were 


no  cabs.  And  they  were 
tired,  and  their  boots  were 
tight. 

And  the  last  they  had 
seen  of  Little  Bil  lee  before 
leaving  was  a  glimpse  of 
their  old  friend  in  a  cor- 
ner of  Lady  Cornelys's 
boudoir,  gravely  playing 
cup  and  ball  with  Fred 
Walker  for  sixpences — 
both  so  rapt  in  the  game 
that  they  were  uncon- 
scious of  anything  else, 
and  both  playing  so  well 
(with  either  hand)  that 
they  might  have  been 
professional  champions! 
And  the  Rabelaisian 
Macey  Sparks  (now  most 
respectable  of  Royal  Ac- 
ademicians), who  some- 
times, in  his  lucid  in- 
tervals after  supper  and 
champagne,  was  given 
to  thoughtful,  acute,  and 
sympathetic  observation 
of  his  fellow -men,  had 
remarked,  in  a  hoarse, 
smoky,  hiccuppy  whisper 
to  the  Laird:  "Rather 
an  enviable  pair!  Their 
united  ages  amount  to 
forty-eight  or  so,  their 
united  weights  to  about 
fifteen  stone,  and  they 
couldn't  carry  you  or  me  between  them. 
But  if  you  were  to  roll  all  the  other  brains 
that  have  been  under  this  roof  to-night 
into  one,  you  wouldn't  reach  the  sum  of 
their  united  genius.  ...  I  wonder  which 
of  the  two  is  the  most  unhappy !" 

And  for  once  the  Rabelaisian  Macey 
Sparks  wasn't  joking 

The  season  over,  the  song-birds  flown, 
summer  on  the  wane,  his  picture,  the 
"Moon-dial,"  sent  to  Moses  Lyon's  (the 
picture-dealer  in  Conduit  Street),  Little 
Billee  felt  the  time  had  come  to  go  and 
see  his  mother  and  sister  in  Devonshire, 
and  make  the  sun  shine  twice  as  brightly 
for  them  during  a  month  or  so,  and  the 
dew  fall  softer! 

So  one  fine  August  morning  found  him 
at  the  Great  Western  Station — the  nicest 
station  in  all  London,  I  think — except  the 
stations  that  book  you  to  France  and 
away. 


TRILBY. 


841 


It  always  seems  so  pleasant  to  be  going- 
west!  Little  Billee  loved  that  station, 
and  often  went  there  for  a  mere  stroll,  to 
watch  the  people  starting  on  their  west- 
ward way,  following  the  sun  towards 
Heaven  knows  what  joys  or  sorrows,  and 
envy  them  their  sorrows  or  their  joys  — 
any  sorrows  or  joys  that  were  not  mere- 
ly physical,  like  a  chocolate  drop  or  a 
pretty  tune,  a  bad  smell  or  a  toothache. 

And  as  he  took  a  seat  in  a  second-class 
carriage  (it  would  be  third  in  these  dem- 
ocratic days),  south  corner,  back  to  the 
engine,  with  Silas  Marner,  and  Darwin's 
Origin  of  Species  (which  he  was  reading 
for  the  third  time),  and  Punch,  and  other 
literature  of  a  lighter  kind,  to  beguile 
him  on  his  journey,  he  felt  rather  bitter- 
ly how  happy  he  could  be  if  the  little 
spot,  or  knot,  or  blot,  or  clot  which  para- 
lyzed that  convolution  of  his  brain  where 
he  kept  his  affections  could  but  be  con- 
jured away! 

The  dearest  mother,  the  dearest  sister 
in  the  world,  in  the  dearest  little  sea-side 
village  (or  town)  that  ever  was!  and 
other  dear  people — especially  Alice,  sweet 
Alice  with  hair  so  brown,  his  sister's 
friend,  the  simple,  pure,  and  pious  maid- 
en of  his  boyish  dreams:  and  himself, 
but  for  that  wretched  little  kill-joy  cere- 
bral occlusion,  as  sound,  as  healthy,  as  full 
of  life  and  energy,  as  he  had  ever  been  ! 

And  when  he  wasn't  reading  Silas 
Marner,  or  looking  out  of  window  at  the 
flying  landscape,  and  watching  it  revolve 
round  its  middle  distance  (as  it  always 
seems  to  do),  he  was  sympathetically  tak- 
ing stock  of  his  fellow -passengers,  and 
mildly  envying  them,  one  after  another, 
indiscriminately ! 

A  fat  old  wheezy  philistine,  with  a 
bulbous  nose  and  only  one  eye,  who  had 
a  plain  sickly  daughter  to  whom  he 
seemed  devoted,  body  and  soul ;  an  old 
lady,  who  still  wept  furtively  at  recollec- 
tions of  the  parting  with  her  grandchil- 
dren, which  had  taken  place  at  the  sta- 
tion (they  had  borne  up  wonderfully,  as 
grandchildren  do)  ;  a  consumptive  cu- 
rate, on  the  opposite  corner  seat  by  the 
window,  whose  tender,  anxious  wife  (sit- 
ting by  his  side)  seemed  to  have  no 
thoughts  in  the  whole  world  but  for  him; 
and  her  patient  eyes  were  his  stars  of 
consolation,  since  he  turned  to  look  into 
them  almost  every  minute,  and  always 
seemed  a  little  the  better  for  doing  so. 
There  is  no  happier  star-gazing  than  that! 


So  Little  Billee  gave  her  up  his  corner 
seat,  that  the  poor  sufferer  might  have 
those  stars  where  he  could  look  into  them 
comfortably  without  turning  his  head. 

Indeed  (as  was  his  wont  with  every- 
body), Little  Billee  made  himself  useful 
and  pleasant  to  his  fellow-travellers  in 


SWEET   ALICE. 


many  ways — so  many  that  long  before 
they  had  reached  their  respective  jour- 
neys' ends  they  had  almost  grown  to 
love  him  as  an  old  friend,  and  longed  to 
know  wTho  this  singularly  attractive  and 
brilliant  youth,  this  genial,  dainty,  benev- 
olent little  princekin,  could  possibly  be, 
who  was  dressed  so  fashionably,  and  yet 
went  second  class,  and  took  such  kind 
thought  of  others;  and  they  wondered  at 
the  happiness  that  must  be  his  at  merely 
being  alive,  and  told  him  more  of  their 
troubles  in  six  hours  than  they  told  many 
an  old  friend  in  a  year. 

But  he  told  them  nothing  about  him- 
self— that  self  he  was  so  sick  of — and  left 
them  to  wonder. 

And  at  his  own  journey's  end,  the  far- 
thest end  of  all,  he  found  his  mother  and 
sister  waiting  for  him,  in  a  beautiful  lit- 
tle pony-carriage — his  last  gift — and  with 
them  sweet  Alice,  and  in  her  eyes,  for 
one  brief  moment,  that  unconscious  look 
of  love  surprised  which  is  not  to  be  for- 
gotten for  years  and  years  and  years — 
which  can  only  be  seen  by  the  eyes  that 
meet  it,  and  which,  for  the  time  it  lasts 
(just  a  flash),  makes  all  women's  eyes 
look  exactly  the  same  (I'm  told):  and  it 
seemed  to  Little  Billee  that,  for  the  twen- 


842 


HARPER'S    NEW    MONTHLY    MAGAZINE. 


tieth  part  of  a  second,  Alice  had  looked 
at  him  with  Trilby's  eyes ;  or  his  mother's, 
when  that  he  was  a  little  tiny  boy. 

It  all  but  gave  him  the  thrill  he  thirst- 
ed for!  Another  twentieth  part  of  a  sec- 
ond, perhaps,  and  his  brain-trouble  would 
have  melted  away;  and  Little  Billee 
would  have  come  into  his  own  again — 
the  kingdom  of  love! 

A  beautiful  human  eye !  Any  beauti- 
ful eye — a  dog's,  a  deer's,  a  donkey's,  an 
owl's  even!  To  think  of  all  that  it  can 
look,  and  all  that  it  can  see!  all  that  it 
can  seem,  sometimes!  What  a  prince 
among  gems!   what  a  star! 

But  a  beautiful  eye  that  lets  the  broad 
white  light  of  infinite  space  (so  bewilder- 
ing and  garish  and  diffused)  into  one 
pure  virgin  heart,  to  be  filtered  there! — 
and  lets  it  out  again,  duly  warmed,  soft- 
ened, concentrated,  sublimated,  focussed 
to  a  point  as  in  a  precious  stone,  that  it 
may  shed  itself  (a  love-laden  effulgence) 
into  some  stray  fellow -heart  close  by — 
through  pupil  and  iris,  entre  quatre-z- 
yeux — the  very  elixir  of  life! 

Alas!  that  such  a  crown-jewel  should 
ever  lose  its  lustre  and  go  blind ! 

Not  so  blind  or  dim,  however,  but  it 
can  still  see  well  enough  to  look  before 
and  after,  and  inwards  and  upwards,  and 
drown  itself  in  tears,  and  yet  not  die! 
And  that's  the  dreadful  pity  of  it.  And 
this  is  a  quite  uncalled-for  digression; 
and  I  can't  think  why  I  should  have 
gone  out  of  my  way  (at  considerable 
pains)  to  invent  it!     In  fact: 

"  Of  this  here  song,  should  I  be  axed  the  reason 
for  to  show, 
I  don't  exactly  know,  I  don't  exactly  know  ! 
But  all  my  fancy  dwells  upon  Nancy." 

"  How  pretty  Alice  has  grown,  mother! 
quite  lovely,  I  think!  and  so  nice;  but 
she  was  always  as  nice  as  she  could  be!" 

So  observed  Little  Billee  to  his  mother 
that  evening  as  they  sat  in  the  garden 
and  watched  the  crescent  moon  sink  to 
the  Atlantic. 

"Ah!  my  darling  Willie!  If  you 
could  only  guess  how  happy  you  would 
make  your  poor  old  mammy  by  growing 
fond  of  Alice ... .  And  Blanche  too !  what 
a  joy  for  her  /" 

"Good  heavens!  mother. ..  .Alice  is 
not  for  the  likes  of  me!  She's  for  some 
splendid  young  Devon  squire,  six  foot 
high,  and  acred  and  whiskered  within  an 
inch  of  his  life!...." 


"  Ah,  my  darling  Willie!  you  are  not 
of  those  who  ask  for  love  in  vain .... 
If  you  only  knew  how  she  believes  in 
you!     She  almost  beats  your   poor   old 
mammy  at  that!" 

And  that  night  he  dreamt  of  Alice — 
that  he  loved  her  as  a  sweet  good  woman 
should  be  loved;  and  knew,  even  in  his 
dream,  that  it  was  but  a  dream;  but,  oh! 
it  was  good!  and  he  managed  not  to 
wake;  and  it  was  a  night  to  be  marked 
with  a  white  stone!  And  (still  in  his 
dream)  she  had  kissed  him,  and  healed 
him  of  his  brain-trouble  forever.  But 
when  he  woke  next  morning,  alas!  his 
brain-trouble  was  with  him  still,  and  he 
felt  that  no  dream  kiss  would  ever  cure  it 
— nothing  but  a  real  kiss  from  Alice's 
own  pure  lips! 

And  he  rose  thinking  of  Alice,  and 
dressed  and  breakfasted  thinking  of  her — 
and  how  fair  she  was,  and  how  innocent, 
and  how  well  and  carefully  trained  up 
the  way  she  should  go — the  beau  ideal  of 
a  wife ....  Could  she  possibly  care  for  a 
shrimp  like  himself? 

For  in  his  love  of  outward  form  he 
could  not  understand  that  any  woman 
who  had  eyes  to  see  should  ever  quite 
condone  the  signs  of  physical  weakness 
in  man,  in  favor  of  any  mental  gifts  or 
graces  whatsoever. 

Little  Greek  that  he  was,  he  worshipped 
the  athlete,  and  opined  that  all  women 
without  exception  —  all  English  women 
especially — must  see  with  the  same  eyes 
as  himself. 

He  had  once  been  vain  and  weak  enough 
to  believe  in  Trilby's  love  (with  a  Taffy 
standing  by  —  a  careless,  unsusceptible 
Taffy,  who  was  like  unto  the  gods  of 
Olympus!) — and  Trilby  had  given  him 
up  at  a  word,  a  hint — for  all  his  frantic 
clinging. 

She  would  not  have  given  up  Taffy, 
pour  si  peu,  had  Taffy  but  lifted  a  little 
finger!  It  is  always  "  just  whistle,  and  I'll 
come  to  you,  my  lad!"  with  the  likes  of 

Taffy but  Taffy  hadn't  even  whistled ! 

Yet  still  he  kept  thinking  of  Alice — and 
he  felt  he  wouldn't  think  of  her  well 
enough  till  he  went  out  for  a  stroll  by 
himself  on  a  sheep -trimmed  down.  So 
he  took  his  pipe  and  his  Darwin,  and  out 
he  strolled  into  the  early  sunshine — up 
the  green  Red  Lane,  past  the  pretty 
church,  Alice's  father's  church  —  and 
there,  at  the  gate,  patiently  waiting  for 
his    mistress,  sat    Alice's    dog  —  an    old 


TRILBY. 


843 


friend  of  his,  whose  welcome  was  a  very 
warm  one. 

Little  Billee  thought  of  Thackeray's 
lovely  poem  in  Pendennis  : 

"She  comes — she's  here — she's  past! 
May  heaven  go  with  her!...." 

Then  he  and  the  dog  went  on  together  to 
a  little  bench  on  the  edge  of  the  cliff — 
within  sight  of  Alice's  bedroom  win- 
dow. It  was  called  "the  Honey-mooners' 
Bench." 

' '  That  look— that  look — that  look !  Ah 
— but  Trilby  had  looked  like  that  too! 
And  there  are  many  Taffys  in  Devon  !" 

He  sat  himself  down  and  smoked  and 
gazed  at  the  sea  below,  which  the  sun 
(still  in  the  east)  had  not  yet  filled  with 
glare  and  robbed  of  the  lovely  sapphire- 
blue,  shot  with  purple  and#dark  green, 
that  comes  over  it  now  and  again  of  a 
morning  on  that  most  beautiful  coast. 

There  was  a  fresh  breeze  from  the  west, 
;and  the  long  slow  billows  broke  into 
creamier  foam  than  ever,  which  reflected 
itself  as  a  tender  white  gleam  in  the  blue 
concavities  of  their  shining  shoreward 
curves  as  they  came  rolling  in.  The  sky 
was  all  of  turquoise  but  for  the  smoke  of 
a  distant  steamer — a  long  thin  horizontal 
streak  of  dun — and  there  were  little  brown 
or  white  sails  here  and  there,  dotting;  and 
the  stately  ships  went  on ... . 

Little  Billee  tried  hard  to  feel  all  this 
beauty  with  his  heart  as  well  as  his  brain 
— as  he  had  so  often  done  when  a  boy — 
and  cursed  his  insensibility  out  loud  for 
at  least  the  thousand  and  first  time. 

Why  couldn't  these  waves  of  air  and 
water  be  turned  into  equivalent  waves  of 
sound,  that  he  might  feel  them  through 
the  only  channel  that  reached  his  emo- 
tions! That  one  joy  was  still  left  him  — 
but,  alas!  alas!  he  was  only  a  painter  of 
pictures — and  not  a  maker  of  music ! 

He  recited  ''Break,  break,  break,"  to 
Alice's  dog,  who  loved  him,  and  looked 
up  into  his  face  with  sapient  affectionate 
eyes — and  whose  name,  like  that  of  so 
many  dogs  in  fiction  and  so  few  in  fact, 
was  simply  Tray.  For  Little  Billee  was 
much  given  to  monologues  out  loud, 
and  profuse  quotations  from  his  favorite 
bards. 

Everybody  quoted  that  particular  poem 

either  mentally  or  aloud  when  they  sat 

on  that  particular  bench — except  a  few 

•old-fashioned  people,  who  still  said, 

"Roll  on,  thou  deep  and  dark  blue  ocean,  roll!" 


or  people  of  the  very  highest  culture, 
who  only  quoted  the  nascent  (and  cres- 
cent) Robert  Browning  ;  or  people  of 
no  culture  at  all,  who  simply  held  their 
tongues — and  only  felt  the  more! 

Tray  listened  silently. 

"Ah,  Tray,  the  best  thing  but  one  to 
do  with  the  sea  is  to  paint  it.  The  next 
best  thing  to  that  is  to  bathe  in  it.  The 
best  of  all  is  to  lie  asleep  at  the  bottom. 
How  would  you  like  that? 

" '  And  on  thy  ribs  the  limpet  sticks, 
And  in  thy  heart  the  scrawl  shall  play....'" 

Tray's  tail  became  as  a  wagging  point 
of  interrogation,  and  he  turned  his  head 
first  on  one  side  and  then  on  the  other — 
his  eyes  fixed  on  Little  Billee's,  his  face 
irresistible  in  its  genial  doggy  wistful- 
ness. 

"Tray,  what  a  singularly  good  listener 
you  are — and  therefore  what  singularly 
good  manners  you've  got!  I  suppose  all 
dogs  have!"  said  Little  Billee;  and  then, 
in  a  very  tender  voice,  he  exclaimed, 

"  Alice,  Alice,  Alice!" 

And  Tray  uttered  a  soft  cooing  nasal 
croon  in  his  head  register,  though  he  was 
a  barytone  dog  by  nature,  with  portentous 
warlike  chest-notes  of  the  jingo  order. 

"Tray,  your  mistress  is  a  parson's 
daughter,  and  therefore  twice  as  much 
of  a  mystery  as  any  other  woman  in  this 
puzzling  world! 

"Tray,  if  my  heart  weren't  stopped 
with  wax,  like  the  ears  of  the  companions 
of  Ulysses  when  they  rowed  past  the  si- 
rens— you've  heard  of  Ulysses,  Tray?  he 
loved  a  dog — if  my  heart  weren't  stopped 
with  wax,  I  should  be  deeply  in  love  with 
your  mistress;  perhaps  she  would  marry 
me  if  I  asked  her — there's  no  accounting 
for  tastes ! — and  I  know  enough  of  myself 
to  know  that  I  should  make  her  a  good 
husband — that  I  should  make  her  happy 
— and  I  should  make  two  other  women 
happy  besides. 

"As  for  myself  personally,  Tray,  it 
doesn't  very  much  matter.  One  good  wo- 
man would  do  as  well  as  another,  if  she's 
equally  good-looking.  You  doubt  it? 
Wait  till  you  get  a  pimple  inside  your 
bump  of — your  bump  of — wherever  you 
keep  your  fondnesses,  Tray. 

"For  that's  what's  the  matter  with 
me — a  pimple — just  a  little  clot  of  blood 
at  the  root  of  a  nerve,  and  no  bigger  than 
a  pin's  point ! 

"That's  a  small  thing  to  cause  such  a 


844 


HARPER'S    NEW    MONTHLY    MAGAZINE. 


lot  of  wretchedness,  and  wreck  a  fellow's 
life,  isn't  it?  Oh,  curse  it,  curse  it,  curse 
it — every  day  and  all  day  long ! 

"  And  just  as  small  a  thing-  will  take  it 
away,  I'm  told! 

"  Ah !  grains  of  sand  are  small  things — 
and  so  are  diamonds!  But  diamond  or 
grain  of  sand,  only  Alice  has  got  that 
small  thing!  Alice  alone,  in  all  the 
world,  has  got  the  healing  touch  for  me 
now;  the  hands,  the  lips,  the  eyes!  I 
know  it  —  I  feel  it!  I  dreamt  it  last 
night!  She  looked  me  well  in  the  face, 
and  took  my  hand  —  both  hands  —  and 
kissed  me,  eyes  and  mouth,  and  told  me 
how  she  loved  me.  Ah  !  what  a  dream 
it  was !  And  my  little  clot  melted  away 
like  a  snowflake  on  the  lips,  and  I  was 
my  old  self  again,  after  many  years — and 
all  through  that  kiss  of  a  pure  woman. 

"  I've  never  been  kissed  by  a  pure  wo- 
man in  my  life— never!  except  by  my 
dear  mother  and  sister;  and  mothers  and 
sisters  don't  count. 

"Ah!  sweet  physician  that  she  is,  and 
better  than  all!  It  will  all  come  back 
again  with  a  rush,  just  as  I  dreamt,  and 
we  will  have  a  good  time  together,  we 
three!. .  . . 

"But  your  mistress  is  a  parson's  daugh- 
ter, and  believes  everything  she's  been 
taught  from  a  child,  just  as  you  do.  At 
least  I  hope  so.  And  I  like  her  for  it — 
and  you  too. 

"  She  has  believed  her  father— will  she 
ever  believe  me,  who  think  so  differently? 
And  if  she  does,  will  it  be  good  for  her? — 
and  then,  where  will  her  father  come  in? 
"Oh!  it's  a  bad  thing  to  live,  and  no 
longer  believe  and  trust 
in  your  father,  Tray,  to 
doubt  either  his  hon- 
esty or  his   intelli- 
gence.       For      he 
(with   your    mo- 
ther to  help)  has 
taught  you  all 
the    best  he 
knows,     if 
he        has 
been     a 
good 


"may  heaven  go  with  her 


father — till  some  one  else  comes  and  teach- 
es you  better — or  worse ! 

"  And  then,  what  are  you  to  believe  of 
what  good  still  remains  of  all  that  early 
teaching  —  and  how  are  you  to  sift  the 
wheat  from  the  chaff? 

"  Kneel  undisturbed,  fair  saint!  I,  for 
one,  will  never  seek  to  undermine  thy 
faith  in  any  father,  on  earth  or  above  it! 

"Yes,  there  she  kneels  in  her  father's 
church,  her  pretty  head  bowed  over  her 
clasped  hands,  her  cloak  and  skirts  fall- 
ing in  happy  folds  about  her:  I  see  it  all ! 

"And  underneath,  that  poor,  sweet, 
soft,  pathetic  thing  of  flesh  and  blood,  the 
eternal  woman — great  heart  and  slender 
brain — forever  enslaved  or  enslaving,  nev- 
er self-sufficing,  never  free  ....  thatdear, 
weak,  delicate  shape,  so  cherishable,  so 
perishable,  tjiat  I've  had  to  paint  so  often, 
and  know  so  well  by  heart!  and  love 
.  .  .  .  ah,  how  I  love  it!  Only  painter- 
fellows  and  sculptor- fellows  can  ever  quite 
know  the  fulness  of  that  pure  love. 

"There  she  kneels  and  pours  forth  her 
praise  or  plaint,  meekly  and  duly.  Per- 
haps it's  for  me  she's  praying! 

'"Leave  thou  thy  sister  when  she  prays.' 

"She  believes  her  poor  little  prayer 
will  be  heard  and  answered  somewhere 
up  aloft.  The  impossible  will  be  done. 
She  wants  what  she  wants  so  badly,  and 
prays  for  it  so  hard. 

"She  believes  —  she  believes  —  what 
doesn't  she  believe,  Tray? 

"After  all,  if  she  believes  in  me,  she'll 
believe  in  anything;  let  her! 

"Yes,  Tray,  I  will  be  dishonest  for  her 
dear  sake.  I  will  kneel  by  her  side,  if 
ever  I  have  the  happy  chance,  and  ever 
after,  night  and  morning,  and  all  day  long 
on  Sundays  if  she  wants  me  to!  What 
will  I  not  do  for  that  one  pretty  woman 
who  believes  in  mef  I  will  respect  even 
that  belief,  and  do  my  little  best  to  keep 
it  alive  forever.  It  is  much  too  precious 
an  earthly  boon  for  me  to  play  ducks  and 
drakes  with.  .  .  . 

"So  much  for  Alice,  Tray — your  sweet 
mistress  and  mine. 

"But  then,  there's  Alice's  papa — and 
that's  another  pair  of  sleeves,  as  we  say 
in  France. 

"Ought  one  ever  to  play  at  make-be- 
lieve with  a  full-grown  man  for  any  con- 
sideration whatever?  even  though  he  be 
a  parson — and  a  possible  father-in-law! 
There's  a  case  of  conscience  for  you  ! 


TRILBY. 


845 


"  When  I  ask  him  for  his 
daughter,  as  I  must,  and  he 
asks  me  for  my  profession 
of  faith,  as  he  will,  what 
can  I  tell  him?     The  truth? 

"I'll  simply  lie  through 
thick  and  thin — I  must — I 
will— nobody  need  ever  be 
a  bit  the  wiser!  I  can  do 
more  good  by  lying  than  by 
telling  the  truth,  and  make 
more  deserving  people  hap- 
py, including  myself  and 
the  sweetest  girl  alive — the 
end  shall  justify  the  means: 
that's  my  excuse,  my  only 
excuse!  and  this  lie  of  mine 
is  on  so  stupendous  a  scale 
that  it  will  have  to  last  me 
for  life.  It's  my  only  one, 
but  it's  name  is  Lion  !  and 
I'll  never  tell  another  as 
long  as  I  live." 

Here  Tray  jumped  up  sud- 
denly and  bolted  —  he  saw 
some  one  else  he  was  fond 
of,  and  ran  to  meet  him.  It 
was  the  vicar,  coming  out  of 
his  vicarage. 

A  very  nice-looking  vicar 
— fresh,  clean,  alert,  well  tanned  by  sun 
and  wind  and  weather — a  youngish  vicar 
still;  tall,  stout,  gentlemanlike,  shrewd, 
kindly,  worldly,  a  trifle  pompous,  and  au- 
thoritative more  than  a  trifle;  not  much 
given  to  abstract  speculation,  and  think- 
ing fifty  times  more  of  any  sporting  and 
orthodox  young  country  squire,  well- 
inched  and  well-acred  (and  well -whis- 
kered), than  of  all  the  painters  in  Chris- 
tendom. 

"  'When  Greek  meets  Greek,  then  comes 
the  tug  of  war, ' "  though  t  Little  Billee ;  and 
he  felt  a  little  uncomfortable.  Alice's  fa- 
ther had  never  loomed  so  big  and  impres- 
sive before,  or  so  distressingly  nice  to 
look  at. 

"Welcome,  my  Apelles,  to  your  ain 
countree,  which  is  growing  quite  proud  of 
you,  I  declare !  Young  Lord  Archie  War- 
ing was  saying  only  last  night  that  he 
wished  he  had  half  your  talent  !  He's 
crazed  about  painting,  you  know,  and 
actually  wants  to  be  a,  painter  himself  ! 
The  poor  dear  old  marquis  is  quite  sore 
about  it!" 

With  this  happy  exordium  the  parson 
stopped  and  shook  hands;  and  they  both 
stood  for  a  while,  looking  seawards.     The 


"SO   MUCH    FOR   ALICE,  TRAY. 


parson  said  the  usual  things  about  the 
sea — itsblueness;  its  grayness;  its  green- 
ness; its  beauty ;  its  sadness ;  its  treachery. 

11  '  Who  would  put  forth  on  thee, 
Unfathomable  sea !' " 

"Who  indeed!"  answered  Little  Bil- 
lee, quite  agreeing.  "I  vote  we  don't,  at 
all  events."     So  they  turned  inland. 

The  parson  said  the  usual  things  about 
the  land  (from  the  country  gentleman's 
point  of  view),  and  the  talk  began  to  flow 
quite  pleasantly,  with  quoting  of  the  usual 
poets,  and  capping  of  quotations  in  the 
usual  way  —  for  they  had  known  each 
other  many  years,  both  here  and  in  Lon- 
don. Indeed,  the  vicar  had  once  been 
Little  Billee's  tutor. 

And  thus,  amicably,  they  entered  a 
small  wooded  hollow.  Then  the  vicar, 
turning  of  a  sudden  his  full  blue  gaze  on 
the  painter,  asked,  sternly, 

"  What  book's  that  you've  got  in  your 
hand,  Willie?" 

' '  A— a— it's  the  Origin  of  Species,  by 
Charles  Darwin.  I'm  very  f-f-fond  of  it. 
I'm  reading  it  for  the  third  time.  .  .  .  It's 
very  g-g-good.  It  accounts  for  things, 
you  know." 


846 


HARPER'S    NEW    MONTHLY    MAGAZINE. 


you're  a  thief,  sir!' 


Then,  after  a  pause,  and  still  more 
sternly, 

"What  place  of  worship  do  you  most 
-attend  in  London — especially  of  an  even- 
ing, William?1' 

Then  stammered  Little  Billee,  all  self- 
control  forsaking  him : 

"I  d-d  don't  attend  any  place  of  wor- 
ship at  all,  morning,  afternoon,  or  even- 
ing. I've  long  given  up  going  to  church 
altogether.  I  can  only  be  frank  with 
you;  I'll  tell  you  why.  ..." 

And  as  they  walked  along  the  talk 
drifted  on  to  very  momentous  subjects 
indeed,  and  led,  unfortunately,  to  a  seri- 
ous falling  out — for  which  probably  both 
were  to  blame — and  closed  in  a  distressful 
way  at  the  other  end  of  the  little  wood- 
ed hollow — a  way  most  sudden  and  un- 
expected, and   quite   grievous  to   relate. 


When  they  emerged  into  the 
open,  the  parson  was  quite 
white,  and  the  painter  crimson. 
"Sir,"  said  the  parson, 
squaring  himself  up  to  more 
than  his  full  height  and 
breadth  and  dignity,  his  face 
big  with  righteous  wrath,  his 
voice  full  of  strong  menace — 
"  sir,  you're — you're  a — you're 
a  thief,  sir,  a  thief!  You're  try- 
ing to  rob  me  of  my  Saviour ! 
Never  you  dare  to  darken  my 
door-step  again  !" 

' '  Sir,"  said  Little  Billee, with 
a  bow,  "if  it  comes  to  calling 
names,  you're — you're  a — no; 
you're  Alice's  father  ;  and 
whatever  else  you  are  be- 
sides, I'm  another  for  trying 
to  be  honest  with  a  parson :  so 
good-morning  to  you." 

And  each  walked  off  in  an 
opposite  direction,  stiff  as  po- 
kers; and  Tray  stood  between, 
looking  first  at  one  receding 
figure,  then  at  another,  discon- 
solate. 

And  thus  Little  Billee  found 
out  that  he  could  no  more  lie 
than  he  could  fly.     And  so  he 
did  not  marry  sweet  Alice  af- 
ter all,  and  no  doubt  it  was  or- 
dered for  her  good  and   his. 
But  there  was  tribulation  for 
many  days    in  the   house   of 
Bagot,  and  for  many  months 
in  one  tender,  pure,  and  pious 
bosom. 
And  the  best  and  the  worst  of  it  all  is 
that,  not  very  many  years  after,  the  good 
vicar — more  fortunate  than  most  clergy- 
men who  dabble  in  stocks  aud  shares — 
grew  suddenly  very  rich  through  a  lucky 
speculation  in  Irish  beer,  and  suddenly, 
also,  took    to    thinking    seriously  about 
things  (as  a  man  of  business  should) — 
more  seriously  than  he  had  ever  thought 
before.     So  at   least    the  story  goes    in 
North  Devon,  and  it  is  not  so  new  as  to 
be   incredible.     Little  doubts   grew  into 
big  ones— big  doubts  resolved  themselves 
into  downright  negations.    He  quarrelled 
with  his  bishop;   he  quarrelled  with  his 
dean;  he  even  quarrelled  with  his  "  poor 
dear  old  marquis,"  who  died  before  there 
was  time  to  make  it  up  again.   And  finally 
he  felt  it  his  duty,  in  conscience,  to  secede 
from  a  Church  which  had  become  too  nar- 


THE    MIRACLE    OF    TISHA    HOFNAGLE. 


847 


row  to  hold  him,  and  took  himself  and 
his  belongings  to  London,  where  at  least 
he  could  breathe.  But  there  he  fell  into 
a  great  disquiet,  for  the  long  habit  of  feel- 
ing himself  always  en  evidence— of  being 
looked  up  to  and  listened  to  without  con- 
tradiction ;  of  exercising  influence  and  au- 
thority in  spiritual  matters  (and  even  tem- 
poral) ;  of  impressing  women,  especially, 
with  his  commanding  presence,  his  fine 
sonorous  voice,  his  lofty  brow,  so  serious 
and  smooth,  his  soft  big  waving  hands — 
which  soon  lost  their  country  tan — all  this 
had  grown  as  a  second  nature  to  him,  the 
breath  of  his  nostrils,  a  necessity  of  his 
life.  So  he  rose  to  be  the  most  popular 
Unitarian  preacher  of  his  day,  and  pretty 
broad  at  that. 


But  his  dear  daughter  Alice,  she  stuck 
to  the  old  faith,  and  married  a  venerable 
High-Church  archdeacon,  who  very  clev- 
erly clutched  at  and  caught  her  and  saved 
her  for  himself  just  as  she  stood  shiv- 
ering on  the  very  brink  of  Rome;  and 
they  were  neither  happy  nor  unhappy 
together — un  menage  bourgeois,  ni  beau 
ni  laid,  ni  bon  ni  mauvais.  And  thus, 
alas !  the  bond  of  religious  sympathy,  that 
counts  for  so  much  in  united  families,  no 
longer  existed  between  father  and  daugh- 
ter, and  the  heart's  division  divided  them. 
Ce  que  c'est  que  de  nous ! .  .  .  The  pity 
of  it! 

And  so  no  more  of  sweet  Alice  with 
hair  so  brown. 

[to  be  continued.] 


THE   MIRACLE   OF   TISHA   HOFNAGLE. 


BY  R.  C.  V.  MEYERS. 


rpHE  doctor,  who  had  known  them  for 
J.  years,  said  a  little  change  would  do 
Tisha  no  harm.  "  Change!"  echoed  Miss 
Nettie.  "  Why,  she  hasn't  had  a  change 
for  twenty-five  years;  I  don't  see  why 
she  should  need  it  now." 

"I  don't,"  said  Tisha,  doggedly.  She 
dragged  her  sewing  across  her  knee,  and 
went  on  with  it  in  that  listless  fashion 
which  had  set  Miss  Nettie's  teeth  on  edge 
for  a  month  past  And  then,  Tisha  prayed 
so  much  lately ;  often  in  the  dead  of  night 
Miss  Nettie  would  wake  and  hear  that  sib- 
ilant murmur  in  Tisha's  room,  and  once 
she  crept  in  her  bare  feet  to  the  door  and 
saw  the  outline  of  her  sister's  form  kneel- 
ing beside  her  little  iron  bed,  like  some- 
thing unearthly  in  the  dark.  They  made 
Miss  Nettie's  flesh  creep,  those  midnight 
prayers  in  that  dark  room,  in  that  con- 
strained, awful  voice. 

Once  when  Tisha  had  taken  some  but- 
ton-holes for  Ella  Arbright  to  do,  and  it 
was  not  likely  anybody  would  want  any- 
thing in  the  store,  Miss  Nettie  wrent  to  her 
sister's  room  to  find  out  if  anything  there 
might  tell  her  what  was  the  matter. 

They  were  twins,  both  small  faded 
blond  women;  always  dressed  precisely 
alike;  had  tastes  in  common.  But  their 
rooms  were  sacred  to  each,  and  were  as 
inviolate  as  though  they  were  shrines. 
Miss  Nettie  felt  guilty  as  she  crossed 
the  sill  into  a  room  the  counterpart  of 
her  own,  the  same  narrow  iron  bedstead 

Vol.  LXXXVIII.— No.  528.— 80 


painted  brown,  the  same  brown  and  red 
ingrain  carpet,  the  same  brown  shade 
at  the  window,  the  same  red  worsted  pin- 
cushion on  the  bureau,  flanked  on  each 
side  by  a  pressed-glass,  large-stoppered 
toilet-bottle,  which  never  had  anything 
in  it,  the  same  gilt  picture-frame  on  the 
wall  exactly  in  the  centre  of  the  bureau — 
except  that  the  pictures  were  different, 
Miss  Nettie  having  that  of  her  father, 
taken  with  prominent  hands,  and  an  iron 
expression  suited  to  the  occasion  ;  Tisha's 
being  of  her  mother,  in  a  black  silk  gown, 
a  long  gold  chain  round  the  neck,  a  large 
marital  brooch  on  the  bosom,  the  fair  hair 
arranged  "Jenny  Lind  fashion."  No, 
there  was  nothing  in  the  room  to  account 
for  Tisha's  behavior. 

But  Miss  Nettie  did  something  else,  and 
now  she  felt  like  a  burglar  indeed.  She 
went  to  Tisha's  bureau  and  opened  the 
middle  drawrer.  There  were  the  neatly 
folded  white  garments,  with  two  little  bags 
of  dried  lavender  on  top,  just  as  in  her 
own  middle  drawer,only  that  Tisha  would 
tie  her  bags  with  "baby-blue"  ribbon, 
while  Miss  Nettie  used  chestnut-brown. 
And,  as  in  her  own  middle  drawer,  there 
was  the  mahogany  box  made  from  pieces 
of  the  cradle  in  which  they  had  both  been 
rocked.  But  in  Miss  Nettie's  box  were 
the  receipts  of  payment  for  the  "stock" 
in  the  store,  while  in  Tisha's  were  several 
dried  rose-buds  and  a  carnelian  cross, 
which  more  than  thirty  years  ago  Henry 


848 


HARPER'S  NEW  MONTHLY  MAGAZINE. 


Burton  had  given  to  Tisha  before  he  ran 
away  with  Mary  Ash,  and  Nettie,  in  wrath- 
ful ebullition,  had  commanded  that  his 
name  should  never  be  mentioned  in  the 
house  again.  Miss  Nettie  raised  the  lid 
of  this  box;  there  were  the  rose-buds; 
there  was  the  carnelian  cross.  There  was 
nothing"  else. 

She  did  not  know  why  she  had  looked 
into  that  box,  except  that  "that  man" 
always  came  into  her  mind  whenever 
there  was  anything  the  matter  with  Tisha, 
be  it  a  cold,  a  headache,  or  when  Tisha 
sat  for  fifteen  minutes  without  saying 
anything;  and  she  had  associated  him 
with  the  prayers  and  the  listless  manner. 

She  endured  it  a  week  longer,  and  there 
was  no  alteration,  except  that  once  she 
waked  in  the  night  and  found  that  Tisha 
had  closed  the  door  that  led  from  her 
room  to  her  sister's.  Such  a  thing  had 
never  happened  before.  "  That  change 
is  got  to  be  had,1'  said  Miss  Nettie,  with 
compressed  lips. 

When  Tisha  went  down  stairs  in  the 
morning  she  knew  that  an  ordeal  was  in 
store  for  her-^Nettie  piled  the  coal  on  the 
kitchen  fire  so  violently,  and  "  scatted  " 
to  Alexander  the  cat.  Her  only  fear  was 
that  Nettie  had  found  her  out.  But  no, 
she  thought,  that  could  not  be. 

She  was  very  meek,  even  smiling  fee- 
bly, when  Nettie  spread  the  butter  on  her 
bread  with  a  dash ;  she  was  always  meek 
when  Nettie  spread  her  butter  like  that. 

"  Letitia!"  said  Nettie. 

The  water-cress  in  Tisha's  mouth  seemed 
to  rattle. 

"Letitia,"  said  Miss  Nettie,  "we  must 
get  winter  coats." 

Tisha  rolled  the  cress  around  in  her 
mouth,  but  could  not  swallow  it. 

"  In  March?"  she  asked,  with  a  ghastly 
attempt  at  pleasantry. 

Miss  Nettie  laid  down  her  knife. 

"  I  hope,"  she  said,  "you  don't  consider 
me  idiot  enough  to  think  it  is  December? 
In  March,  in  some  places,  the  winter  coats 
can  be  had  for  a  mere  song.  Ella  Ar- 
bright  read  it  in  the  papers.  Ours  are 
very  shabby  ;  they  haven't  worn  that 
kind  of  sleeves  for  five  years.  You  can 
get  twenty-dollar  coats  for  nine  dollars 
and  eighty-seven  cents.  Your  coat  wore 
better  than  mine.  That's  because  you 
never  go  out,  I  guess,  except  to  carry  the 
button-holes  to  Ella  Arbright." 

"Let  me  see,"  mused  Tisha,  anxious 
for  time;  "  twice  nine  eighty-seven  is — " 


"  Nineteen  seventy-four,"  snapped  Miss 
Nettie,  with  the  avidity  of  a  lightning  cal- 
culator. 

Tisha  looked  at  her. 

"I  thought,". she  ventured,  "you  said 
in  the  winter  we  could  wait." 

"  Well,"  demanded  Miss  Nettie,  "have 
we  waited,  or  haven't  we?  And  will  you 
tell  me  if  there  is  any  use  paying  twenty 
dollars  for  a  coat  next  winter  when  you 
can  get  it  now  for  nine  dollars  and  eighty- 
seven  cents?" 

"But  we  never  get  twenty-dollar  coats," 
argued  Tisha. 

"We'll  get 'em  now,"  pursued  Miss 
Nettie.  "For  nine  dollars  and  eighty- 
seven  cents.     In  New  York." 

Tisha's  cress  went  down  in  a  lump. 

"  Where?"  she  faintly  asked. 

"I  said  New  York,"  answered  Miss 
Nettie,  stirring  her  coffee  till  it  bubbled. 
"It's  in  the  papers.  Ella  Arbright  told 
me.  That  beau  of  hers  brings  her  the 
New  York  paper.  It's  in  Sixth  Avenue. 
Twenty-dollar  coats  for  nine  dollars  and 
eighty-seven  cents." 

Tisha's  sorrow  asserted  itself;  she  could 
not  leave  the  city  just  now ;  she  must  wait 
until — oh,  until  she  knew.  She  struck 
out  wildly. 

"There's  the  fare,"  she  said. 

4 '  Mr.  Abercrombie  said  if  I  ever  wanted 
a  pass  he'd  give  me  one,"  retorted  Miss 
Nettie.  "  I'm  going  for  the  pass  this  morn- 
ing.    You  can  wash  up." 

Like  a  ramrod  she  sprang  up  from  the 
table,  and  went  into  her  room  for  her 
bonnet.  She  came  out  putting  it  on, 
some  pins  in  her  mouth. 

"  Thread's  gone  up,"  she  said.  "  Don't 
sell  those  white  spools  for  three  cents; 
they're  four."  Pinning  the  bow  of  her  bon- 
net strings  on  each  side  of  her  chin,  she 
left  the  room,  and  when  the  shop -bell 
tinkled  Tisha  knew  she  had  left  the  house. 

She  sat  there  looking  at  her  teacup  and 
the  running  vine  that  went  up  and  down 
it,  the  nick  in  it.  The  world  seemed  to 
go  round;  she  seemed  to  be  spinning; 
she  could  not  have  risen  just  then.  Yet, 
strange  to  say,  her  head  was  clear,  she 
could  think,  and  all  her  thought  was  of 
the  one  thing,  the  threatened  disgrace  of 
Henry  Burton. 

Odd  that  so  improbable  a  person  as 
Ella  Arbright  should  have  been  the  me- 
dium through  which  she  should  hear  of 
Henry  Burton  after  all  these  years.  That 
gossip  of  Ella's  stood  out  with  awful  in- 


TRILBY.* 


BY  GEORGE   DU   MAURIER. 


$att  mm. 


"  Vi  ravviso,  o  luoghi  ameni !" 

BEHOLD  our  three  musketeers  of  the 
brush  once  more  reunited  in  Paris, 
famous,  after  long  years. 

In  emulation  of  the  good  Dumas,  we 
will  call  it  "cinq  ans  apres." 

Taffy  stands  for  Porthos  and  Athos 
rolled  into  one,  since  he  is  big  and  good- 
natured,  and  strong  enough  to  "  assom- 
mer  un  homme  d'un 
coup  de  poing,"  and 
also  stately  and  sol- 
emn, of  aristocratic 
and  romantic  ap- 
pearan  ce,  and  n  ot  too 
fat — not  too  much 
ongbongpwang,  as 
the  Laird  called  it — 
and  also  he  does  not 
dislike  a  bottle  of 
wine,  or  even  two, 
and  looks  as  if  he 
had  a  history. 

The  Laird,  of 
course,  is  d'Arta- 
gnan,  since  he  sells 
his  pictures  well, 
and  by  the  time  we 

are  writing  of  has  already  become  an 
Associate  of  the  Royal  Academy;  like 
Quentin  Durward,  this  d'Artagnan  was  a 
Scotsman : 

"Ah,  wass  na  he  a  Roguy,  this  piper  of  Dundee!" 

And  Little  Billee,  the  dainty  friend  of 
duchesses,  must  stand  for  Aramis,  I  fear! 
It  will  not  do  to  push  the  simile  too  far; 
besides,  unlike  the  good  Dumas,  one  has 
a  conscience.  One  does  not  play  ducks 
and  drakes  with  historical  facts,  or  tam- 
per with  historical  personages.  And  if 
Athos,  Porthos,  and  Co.  are  not  historical 
by  this  time,  I  should  like  to  know  who 
are! 

Well,  so  are  Taffy,  the  Laird,  and  Lit- 
tle Billee — tout  ce  qiCil  y  a  de  plus  histo- 
riques  ! 

Our  three  friends,  well  groomed,  frock- 
coated,  shirt-collared  within  an  inch  of 
their  lives,  duly  scarfed  and  scarf-pinned, 
chimney-pot-hatted,  and  most  beautifully 


trousered,  booted,  and  even  gaitered,  are 
breakfasting  together  on  coffee,  rolls,  and 
butter  at  a  little  round  table  in  the  huge 
court-yard  of  an  immense  caravanserai, 
paved  with  asphalt,  and  covered  in  at  the 
top  with  a  glazed  roof  that  admits  the 
sun  and  keeps  out  the  rain — and  the  air. 
A  magnificent  old  man  as  big  as  Taffy, 
in  black   velvet  coat  and   breeches   and 


A   LITTLE   PICTURE   OP   THE    GOOD    OLD   THAMES. 


black  silk  stockings,  and  a  large  gold 
chain  round  his  neck  and  chest,  looks 
down  like  Jove  from  a  broad  flight  of 
marble  steps  —  to  welcome  the  coming 
guests,  who  arrive  in  cabs  and  railway 
omnibuses  through  a  huge  archway  on 
the  boulevard,  or  to  speed  those  who  part 
through  a  lesser  archway  opening  on  to 
a  side  street. 

"  Bon  voyage,  messieurs  et  dames!" 
At  countless  other  little  tables  other 
voyagers  are  breakfasting  or  ordering 
breakfast;  or,  having  breakfasted,  are 
smoking  and  chatting  and  looking  about. 
It  is  a  babel  of  tongues — the  cheerfulest, 
busiest,  merriest  scene  in  the  world,  ap- 
parently the  costly  place  of  rendezvous 
for  all  wealthy  Europe  and  America;  an 
atmosphere  of  bank-notes  and  gold. 

Already  Taffy  has  recognized  and  been 
recognized  by  half  a  dozen  old  fellow- 
Crimeans,  of  unmistakable  military  as- 
pect like  himself;  and  three  canny  Scots- 


*  Begun  in  January  number,  1894. 


Vol.  LXXXIX.— No. 


68 


HARPER'S    NEW    MONTHLY    MAGAZINE. 


men  have  discreetly  greeted  the  Laird ; 
and  as  for  Little  Billee,  he  is  constantly 
jumping  up  from  his  breakfast  and  run- 
ning to  this  table  or  that,  drawn  by  some 
irresistible  British  smile  of  surprised  and 
delighted  female  recognition:  "What, 
you  here?     How  nice!" 

At  the  top  of  the  marble  steps  is  a  long 
terrace, with  seats  and  people  sitting,  from 
which  tall  glazed  doors,  elaborately  carved 
and  gilded,  give  access  to  luxurious  draw- 
ing-rooms, dining-rooms,  reading-rooms, 
lavatories,  postal  and  telegraph  offices; 
and  all  round  and  about  are  huge  square 
green  boxes,  out  of  which  grow  tropical 
and  exotic  evergreens  all  the  year  round 
— wTith  beautiful  names  that  I  have  for- 
gotten. And  leaning  against  these  boxes 
are  placards  announcing  what  theatrical 
or  musical  entertainments  will  take  place 
in  Paris  that  day  or  night ;  and  the  biggest 
of  these  placards  (and  the  most  fantasti- 
cally decorated)  informs  the  cosmopolite 
world  that  Madame  Svengali  intends  to 
make  her  first  appearance  in  Paris  that 
very  evening,  at  nine  punctually,  in  the 
Cirque  des  Bashibazouchs,  Rue  St.-Ho- 
nore! 

Our  friends  had  only  arrived  the  pre- 
vious night,  but  they  had  managed  to  se- 
cure stalls  a  week  beforehand.  No  places 
were  any  longer  to  be  got  for  love  or 
money.  Many  people  had  come  to  Paris 
on  purpose  to  hear  la  Svengali — many  fa- 
mous musicians  from  England  and  every- 
where else — but  they  would  have  to  wait 
many  days. 

The  fame  of  her  wras  like  a  rolling 
snowball  that  had  been  rolling  all  over 
Europe  for  the  last  two  years — wherever 
there  was  snow  to  be  picked  up  in  the 
shape  of  golden  ducats. 

Their  breakfast  over,  Taffy,  the  Laird, 
and  Little  Billee,  cigar  in  mouth,  arm 
in  arm,  the  huge  Taffy  in  the  middle 
(comme  autrefois),  crossed  the  sunshiny 
boulevard  into  the  shade,  and  went  down 
the  Rue  de  la  Paix,  through  the  Place 
Vendome  and  the  Rue  Casdglione  to  the 
Rue  de  Rivoli — quite  leisurely,  and  with 
a  tender  midrif  -  warming  sensation  of 
freedom  and  delight  at  almost  every 
step. 

Arrived  at  the  corner  pastry-cook's, 
they  finished  the  stumps  of  their  cigars 
as  they  looked  at  the  well-remembered 
show  in  the  window;  then  they  went  in 
and  had,  Taffy  a  Madeleine,  the  Laird  a 
baba,  and    Little   Billee  a  Savarin — and 


each,  I  regret  to  say,  a  liqueur -glass  of 
rhum  de  la  Jamaique. 

After  this  they  sauntered  through  the 
Tuileries  Gardens,  and  by  the  quay  to 
their  favorite  Pont  des  Arts,  and  looked 
up  and  down  the  river — comme  autre- 
fois ! 

It  is  an  enchanting  prospect  at  any 
time  and  under  any  circumstances;  but 
on  a  beautiful  morning  in  mid-October, 
when  you  haven't  seen  it  for  five  years, 
and  are  still  young!  and  almost  every 
stock  and  stone  that  meets  your  eye,  ev- 
ery sound,  every  scent,  has  some  sweet 
and  subtle  reminder  for  you — ! 

Let  the  reader  have  no  fear.  I  will 
not  attempt  to  describe  it.  I  shouldn't 
know  where  to  begin  (nor  when  to  leave 
off)! 

Not  but  what  many  changes  had  been 
wrought ;  many  old  landmarks  were 
missing.  And  among  them,  as  they 
found  out  a  few  minutes  later,  and  much 
to  their  chagrin,  the  good  old  Morgue! 

They  inquired  of  a  gardien  de  la  paix, 
who  told  them  that  a  new  Morgue — "une 
bien  jolie  Morgue,  ma  foi!" — and  much 
more  commodious  and  comfortable  than 
the  old  one,  had  been  built  beyond  Notre 
Dame,  a  little  to  the  right. 

"Messieurs  devraient  voir  ca — on  y  est 
tres  bien !" 

But  Notre  Dame  herself  was  still  there, 
and  la  Sainte-Chapelle  and  Le  Pont  Neuf, 
and  the  equestrian  statue  of  Henri  IV. 
C'est  toujours  cat 

And  as  they  gazed  and  gazed,  each 
framed  unto  himself,  mentally,  a  little 
picture  of  the  good  old  Thames  they 
had  just  left — and  thought  of  Waterloo 
Bridge,  and  St.  Paul's,  and  London — but 
felt  no  homesickness  whatever,  no  desire 
to  go  back ! 

And  looking  down  the  river  westward 
there  was  but  little  change. 

On  the  left-hand  side  the  terraces  and 
garden  of  the  old  Hotel  de  la  Rochemar- 
tel  (the  sculptured  entrance  of  which  was 
in  the  Rue  de  Lille)  still  overtopped  the 
neighboring  houses  and  shaded  the  quay 
with  tall  trees,  whose  quietly  falling 
leaves  yellowed  the  pavement  for  at  least 
a  hundred  yards  of  frontage — or  backage, 
rather;  for  this  was  but  the  rear  of  that 
stately  palace. 

"I  wonder  if  1'Zouzou  has  come  into 
his  dukedom  yet?"  said  Taffy. 

And  Taffy  the  realist,  Taffy  the  mod- 
ern of  moderns,  also  said  many  beautiful 


"AN    ATMOSPHERE   OP   BANK-NOTES    AND    GOLD. 


things  about  old  historical  French  duke- 
doms; which,  in  spite  of  their  plentiful- 
ness,  were  so  much  more  picturesque  than 
English  ones,  and  constituted  a  far  more 
poetical  and  romantic  link  wTith  the  past; 
partly  on  account  of  their  beautiful  high- 
sounding  names! 

"  Amaury  de  Brissac  de  Roncesvaulx 
de  la  Rochemartel-Boissegur !  what  a  gen- 
erous mouthful!  Why,  the  very  sound 
of  it  is  redolent  of  the  twelfth  century ! 
Not  even  Howard  of  Norfolk  can  beat 
that!" 

For  Taffy  was  getting  sick  of  "this 
ghastly  thin-faced  time  of  ours,"  as  he 
sadly  called  it  (quoting  Mr.  Swinburne, 
who  had  just  published  a  beautiful  poem 
called  "Faustine  "  in  the  Spectator),  and 
beginning  to  love  all  things  that  were 
old  and  rotten  and  forgotten  and  of  bad 
repute,  and  long  to  paint  them  just  as 
they  really  were. 

"Ah!  they  managed  these  things  bet- 
ter in  France,  especially  in  the  twelfth 
century,  and  even  the  thirteenth!"  said 
the  Laird.  "Still,  Howard  of  Norfolk 
isn't  bad  at  a  pinch— fote  de  myooT 
he  continued,  winking  at  Little  Billee. 
And  they  promised  themselves  that  they 
would  leave  cards  on  Zouzou,  and  if  he 


wasn't  a  duke,  invite  him  to  dinner;  and 
also  Dodor,  if  they  could  manage  to  find 
him. 

Then  along  the  quay  and  up  the  Rue 
de  Seine,  and  by  well -remembered  little 
mystic  ways  to  the  old  studio  in  the  Place 
St.-Anatole  des  Arts. 

Here  they  found  many  changes.  A 
row  of  new  houses  on  the  north  side,  by 
Baron  Haussmann — the  well -named  —  a 
boulevard  was  being  constructed  right 
through  the  place.  But  the  old  house 
had  been  respected;  and  looking  up,  they 
saw  the  big  north  window  of  their  good 
old  abode  blindless  and  blank  and  black, 
but  for  a  white  placard  in  the  middle  of 
it,  with  the  words :  "  A  louer.  Un  atelier, 
et  une  chambre  a  coucher." 

They  entered  the  court-yard  through 
the  little  door  in  the  porte  cochere,  and 
beheld  Madame  Vinard  standing  on  the 
step  of  her  loge,  her  arms  akimbo,  giving 
orders  to  her  husband— who  was  sawing 
logs  for  firewood,  as  usual  at  that  time  of 
the  year — and  telling  him  he  was  the  most 
helpless  log  of  the  lot. 

She  gave  them  one  look,  threw  up  her 
arms,  and  rushed  at  them,  saying,  "Ah, 
mon  Dieu !  les  trois  Angliches !" 

And  they  could  not  have  complained 


70 


HARPER'S  NEW  MONTHLY  MAGAZINE. 


of  any  lack  of  warmth  in  her  greeting,  or 
in  Monsieur  Vinard's. 

"All!  niais  quel  bonheur  de  vous  re- 
voii'!  Et  comme  vous  avez  bonne  mine, 
tous!  Et  Monsieur  Litrebili,  done!  il  a 
grand i  !"  etc. ,  etc.  ' '  Mais  vous  allez  boire 
la  goutte  avant  tout — vite,  Vinard!  Le 
ratafia  de  cassis  que  Monsieur  Durien  nous 
a  envoye  la  semaine  derniere!" 

And  they  were  taken  into  the  loge  and 
made  free  of  it — welcomed  like  prodigal 
sons;  a  fresh  bottle  of  black-currant  bran- 
dy was  tapped,  and  did  duty  for  the  fatted 
calf.  It  was  an  ovation,  and  made  quite 
a  stir  in  the  quartier. 

Le  Ret  our  des  trois  Angliches — cinq 
ans  apres  ! 

She  told  them  all  the  news:  about 
Bouchardy;  Papelard;  Jules  Guinot,  who 
was  now  in  the  Ministere  de  la  Guerre; 
Barizel,  who  had  given  up  the  arts  and 
gone  into  his  father's  business  (umbrel- 
las) ;  Durien,  who  had  married  six  months 
ago,  and  had  a  superb  atelier  in  the  Rue 
Taitbout,  and  was  coining  money;  about 
her  own  family — Aglae,  who  was  going 
to  be  married  to  the  son  of  the  charbon- 
nier  at  the  corner  of  the  Rue  de  la  Cani- 
cule — "un  bon  mariage;  bien  solide!" 
Niniche,  who  was  studying  the  piano  at 
the  Conservatoire,  and  had  won  the  silver 
medal;  Isidore,  who,  alas!  had  gone  to 
the  bad — "perdu  par  les  femmes!  un  si 
joli  garcon,  vous  concevez!  9a  ne  .lui  a 
pas  porte  bonheur,  par  exemple!"  And 
yet  she  was  proud !  and  said  his  father 
would  never  have  had  the  pluck ! 

"  A  dix-huit  ans,  pensez  done!" 

"  And  that  good  Monsieur  Carrel ;  he  is 
dead,  you  know!  Ah,  messieurs  savai- 
ent  ga?  Yes,  he  died  at  Dieppe,  his  natal 
town,  during  the  winter,  from  the  conse- 
quences of  an  indigestion— que  voulez- 
vous!  He  always  had  the  stomach  so 
feeble!  .  .  .  Ah!  the  beautiful  interment, 
messieurs !  Five  thousand  people,  in  spite 
of  the  rain !  Car  il  pleuvait  averse !  And 
M.  le  Maire  and  his  adjunct  walking  be- 
hind the  hearse,  and  the  gendarmerie  and 
the  douaniers,  and  a  bataillon  of  the  dou- 
zieme  chasseurs-a-pied,  with  their  music, 
and  all  the  sapper-pumpers,  en  grande 
tenue  with  their  beautiful  brass  helmets ! 
All  the  town  was  there,  so  there  was  no- 
body left  to  see  the  procession  go  by! 
q'e'etait  beau  !  Mon  Dieu,  q'e'etait  beau ! 
c'que  j'ai  pleure,  d'voir  ga!  n'est-ce-pas, 
Vinard?" 

"  Dame,  oui,mabiche!  j'crois  bien !    It 


might  have  been  Monsieur  le  Maire  him- 
self that  one  was  interring  in  person!" 

"Ah,  ga!  voyons,  Vinard;  thou'rt  not 
going  to  compare  the  Maire  of  Dieppe  to 
a  painter  like  Monsieur  Carrel?" 

"Certainly  not,  ma  biche!  But  still, 
M.  Carrel  was  a  great  man  all  the  same, 
in  his  way.  Besides,  I  wasn't  there — nor 
thou  either,  as  to  that!" 

"Mon  Dieu!  comme  il  est  idiot,  ce  Vi- 
nard— of  a  stupidity  to  cut  with  a  knife! 
Why,  thou  might'st  almost  be  a  Mayor 
thyself,  sacred  imbecile  that  thou  art!" 

And  an  animated  discussion  arose  be- 
tween husband  and  wife  as  to  the  respec- 
tive merits  of  a  country  mayor  on  one 
side  and  a  famous  painter  and  member  of 
the  Institute  on  the  other,  during  which 
les  trois  Angliches  were  left  out  in  the- 
cold.  When  Madame  Vinard  had  suffi- 
ciently routed  her  husband,  which  did 
not  take  very  long,  she  turned  to  them 
again,  and  told  them  that  she  had  started 
a  magasin  de  bric-a-brac,  "  vous  verrez: 
ga!" 

Yes,  the  studio  had  been  to  let  for  three 
months.  Would  they  like  to  see  it?  Here 
were  the  keys.  They  would,  of  course, 
prefer  to  see  it  themselves,  alone;  "je 
comprends  ga  1  et  vous  verrez  ce  que  vous- 
verrez!"  Then  they  must  come  and 
drink  once  more  again  the  drop,  and  in- 
spect her  magasin  de  bric-a-brac. 

So  they  went  up,  all  three,  and  let  them- 
selves into  the  old  place  where  they  had 
been  so  happy — and  one  of  them  for  a  while- 
so  miserable ! 

It  was  changed  indeed. 

Bare  of  all  furniture,  for  one  thing; 
shabby  and  unswept,  with  a  pathetic  air 
of  dilapidation,  spoliation,  desecration, 
and  a  musty  shut-up  smell;  the  window 
so  dirty  you  could  hardly  see  the  new 
houses  opposite;  the  floor  a  disgrace! 

All  over  the  walls  were  caricatures  in 
charcoal  and  white  chalk,  with  more  or 
less  incomprehensible  legends;  very  vul- 
gar and  trivial  and  coarse,  some  of  them, 
and  pointless  for  trois  Angliches. 

But  among  these  (touching  to  relate) 
they  found,  under  a  square  of  plate-glass 
that  had  been  fixed  on  the  wall  by  means 
of  an  oak  frame,  Little  Billee's  old  black 
and  white  and  red  chalk  sketch  of  Tril- 
by's left  foot,  as  fresh  as  if  it  had  been 
done  only  yesterday!  Over  it  was  writ- 
ten: "Souvenir  de  la  Grande  Trilby,  par 
W.  B.  (Litrebili)."  And  beneath,  careful- 
ly engrossed  on  imperishable  parchment,. 


Hi- 


72 


HARPER'S    NEW    MONTHLY    MAGAZINE. 


PAUVRFJ    TRILBY. 


and  pasted   on   the  glass,  the  following 
stanzas: 

"Pauvre  Trilby — la  belle  et  bonne  et  chere ! 
Je  suis  son  pied.     Devine  qui  voudra 
Quel  tendre  ami,  la  cherissant  naguere, 
Encadra  d'elle  (et  d'un  amour  sincere) 

Ce  souvenir  charmant  qu'un  caprice  inspira  — 
Qu'un  souffle  emportera ! 

"  J'etais  jumeau  :  qu'est  devenu  mon  frere  ? 

HeMas  !     HeMas  !     L'Amour  nous  egara. 

L'Eternite  nous  unira,  j'espere  ; 

Et  nous  ferons  comme  autrefois  la  paire 
Au  fond  d'un  lit  bien  chaste  ou  nul  ne  troublera 
Trilby — qui  dormira. 

"O  tendre  ami,  sans  nous  qu'allez-vous  faire? 
La  porte  est  close  ou  Trilby  demeura. 
Le  Paradis  est  loin  .  .  .  et  sur  la  terre 
(Qui  nous  fut  douce  et  lui  sera  16gere) 

Pour  trouver  nos  pareils,  si  bien  qu'on  cherchera — 
Beau  chercher  Ton  aura !" 

Taffy  drew  a  long  breath  into  his  man- 
ly bosom,  and  kept  it  there  as  he  read  this 


characteristic  French 
doggerel  (for  so  he 
chose  to  call  this  touch- 
ing little  symphony  in 
ere  and  ra).  His  huge 
frame  thrilled  with  ten- 
derness and  pity  and 
fond  remembrance,  and 
he  said  to  himself  (let- 
ting out  his  breath) : 
"  Dear,  dear  Trilby! 
Ah !  if  you  had  only 
cared  for  me,  I  wouldn't 
have  given  you  up — not 
for  any  one  on  earth. 
You  were  the  mate  for 

And  that,  as  the  read- 
er has  guessed  long  ago, 
was  big  Taffy's  "his- 
tory." 

The  Laird  was  also 
deeply  touched,  and 
could  not  speak.  Had 
he  been  in  love  with 
Trilby  too?  Had  he 
ever  been  in  love  with 
any  one? 

He  couldn't  say.  But 
he  thought  of  Trilby's 
sweetness    and   unself- 
ishness, hergayety,  her 
innocent   kissings   and 
caressings,  her  drollery 
and   frolicsome   grace, 
her  way  of  filling  what- 
ever place  she  was  in 
with  her  presence,  the 
charming  sight  and  the 
genial  sound  of  her,  and  felt  that  no  girl, 
no  woman,  no  lady  he  had  ever  seen  yet, 
was  a  match  for  this  poor  waif  and  stray, 
this    long-legged,   cancan-dancing,  quar- 
tier-latin    grisette,  blanchisseuse   de   fin, 
"and  Heaven  knows  what  besides!" 

"  Hang  it  all !"  he  mentally  ejaculated, 
'•  I  wish  to  goodness  I'd  married  her  my- 
self T 

Little  Billee  said  nothing  either.  He 
felt  unhappier  than  he  had  ever  once  felt 
for  five  long  years— to  think  that  he  could 
gaze  on  such  a  memento  as  this,  a  thing 
so  strongly  personal  to  himself,  with  dry 
eyes  and  a  quiet  pulse!  and  he  unemo- 
tionally, dispassionately,  wished  himself 
dead  and  buried  for  at  least  the  thousand 
and  first  time! 

All  three  possessed  casts  of  Trilby's 
feet  and  photographs   of  herself.      But 


TRILBY. 


73 


nothing  so  charmingly  suggestive  of  Tril- 
by as  this  little  masterpiece  of  a  true  ar- 
tist, this  happy  fluke  of  a  happy  moment. 
It  was  Trilbiness  itself,  as  the  Laird 
thought,  and  should  not  be  suffered  to 
perish. 

They  took  the  keys  back  to  Madame 
Vinard  in  silence. 

She  said :  "  Vous  avez  vu — n'est-ce  pas, 
messieurs? — le  pied  de  Trilby!  c'est  bien 
gentil!  C'est  Monsieur  Durien  qui  a  fait 
mettre  le  verre,  quand  vous  etes  partis;  et 
Monsieur  Gruinot  qui  a  compose  Vepi- 
taphe.  Pauvre  Trilby!  qu'est-ce  qu'elle 
est  devenue !  comme  elle  etait  bonne  fille, 
hein?  et  si  belle!  et  comme  elle  etait  vive, 
elle  etait  vive,  elle  etait  vive !  Et  comme 
elle  vous  aim  ait  tous  bien  —  et  surtout 
Monsieur  Litrebili — n'est-ce  pas?" 

Then  she  insisted  on  giving  them  each 
another  liqueur-glass  of  Durien's  ratafia 
de  cassis,  and  took  them  to  see  her  collec- 
tion of  bric-a-brac  across  the  yard,  a  gor- 
geous show,  and  explained  everything 
about  it — how  she  had  begun  in  quite  a 
small  way,  but  was  making  it  a  big  busi- 
ness. 

"Voyez  cette  pendule!  It  is  of  the 
time  of  Louis  Onze,  who  gave  it  to  Ma- 


dame de  Pompadour  (!).  I  bought  it  at 
a  sale  in — " 

"  Combiang?"  said  the  Laird. 

"C'est  cent-cinquante  francs,  mon- 
sieur— c'est  bien  bon  marche — une  verita- 
ble occasion,  et — " 

"Je  prong!"  said  the  Laird,  meaning 
"I  take  it!" 

Then  she  showed  them  a  beautiful  bro- 
cade gown  "which  she  had  picked  up  a 
bargain  at — " 

"Combiang?"  said  the  Laird. 

"Ah,  ca,  c'est  trois  cents  francs,  mon- 
sieur.    Mais — " 

"  Je  prong!"  said  the  Laird. 

"  Et  voici  les  souliers  qui  vont  avec,  et 
que — " 

"Jepr— " 

But  here  Taffy  took  the  Laird  by  the 
arm  and  dragged  him  by  force  out  of 
this  too  seductive  siren's  cave. 

The  Laird  told  her  where  to  send  his 
purchases — and  with  many  expressions 
of  love  and  good-will  on  both  sides,  they 
tore  themselves  away  from  Monsieur  et 
Madame  Vinard. 

The  Laird,  however,  rushed  back  for  a 
minute,  and  hurriedly  whispered  to  Ma- 
dame Vinard:  "Oh — er — le  piay  de  Tril- 


"je  prong!' 


74 


HARPER'S  NEW  MONTHLY  MAGAZINE. 


by — sur  le  mure,  vous  savvy — avec  le 
verre  et  toot  le  reste — coopy  le  mure — 
comprenny?.  . .  Combiang?" 

"  Ah,  monsieur!"  said  Madame  Vinard 
— "c'est  un  peu  difficile,  vous  savez  — 
couper  un  mur  comme  9a!  On  parlera 
au  proprietaire  si  vous  voulez,  et  ga 
pourrait  peut-etre  s'arranger,  si  c'est  en 
bois!  seulement  il  fau — " 

"  Je  prong!"  said  the  Laird,  and  waved 
his  hand  in  farewell. 

They  went  up  the  Rue  Vieille  des 
Mauvais  Ladres.  and  found  that  about 
twenty  yards  of  a  high  wall  had  been 
pulled  down — just  at  the  bend  where  the 
Laird  had  seen  the  last  of  Trilby,  as  she 
turned  round  and  kissed  her  hand  to  him 
—and  they  beheld,  within,  a  quaint  and 
ancient  long-neglected  garden;  a  gray  old 
garden,  with  tall  warty  black-boled  trees, 
and  damp  green  mossy  paths  that  lost 
themselves  under  the  brown  and  yellow 
leaves  and  mould  and  muck  which  had 
drifted  into  heaps  here  and  there,  the  ac- 
cumulation of  years — a  queer  old  faded 
pleasance,  with  wasted  bowers,  and  dilap- 
idated carved  stone  benches  and  weather- 
beaten  discolored  marble  statues — nose- 
less, armless,  earless  fauns  and  hamadry- 
ads! And  at  the  end  of  it,  in  a  tumble- 
down state  of  utter  ruin,  a  still  inhabited 
little  house,  with  shabby  blinds  and  win- 
dow-curtains, and  broken  window-panes 
mended  with  brown  paper — a  Pavilion 
de  Flore,  that  must  have  been  quite  beau- 
tiful a  hundred  years  ago — the  once  mys- 
terious love-resort  of  long-buried  frolic- 
some abbes,  and  well-forgotten  lords  and 
ladies  gay— red-heeled,  patched,  powdered, 
frivolous,  and  shameless,  but,  oh!  how 
charming  to  the  imagination  of  the  nine- 
teenth century!  And  right  through  the 
ragged  lawn  (where  lay,  upset  in  the  long 
dewy  grass,  a  broken  doll's  perambulator 
by  a  tattered  Punchinello)  went  a  desecra- 
ting track  made  by  cart  wheels  and  horses' 
hoofs;  and  this,  no  doubt,  was  to  be  anew 
street — perhaps,  as  Taffy  suggested,  "La 
Rue  Neuve  des  Mauvais  Ladres !  The  new 
street  of  the  bad  lepers!" 

"Ah,  Taffy!"  sententiously  opined  the 
Laird,  with  his  usual  wink  at  Little  Billee 
— "  I've  no  doubt  the  old  lepers  were  the 
best,  bad  as  they  were !" 

"I'm  quite  sure  of  it!"  said  Taffy, 
with  sad  and  sober  conviction  and  a  long- 
drawn  sigh.  "  I  only  wish  I  had  a  chance 
of  painting  one — just  as  he  really  was!" 

How   often    they   had    speculated    oil 


what  lay  hidden  behind  that  lofty  old 
brick  wall !  and  now  this  melancholy 
little  peep  into  the  once  festive  past,  the 
touching  sight  of  this  odd  old  poverty- 
stricken  abode  of  Heaven  knows  what 
present  grief  and  desolation,  which  a  few 
strokes  of  the  pickaxe  had  laid  bare, 
seemed  to  chime  in  with  their  own  gray 
mood,  that  had  been  so  bright  and  sunny 
an  hour  ago,  and  they  went  on  their  way 
quite  dejectedly,  for  a  stroll  through  the 
Luxembourg  Gallery  and  Gardens. 

The  same  people  seemed  to  be  still  copy- 
ing the  same  pictures  in  the  long  quiet 
genial  room,  so  pleasantly  smelling  of 
oil-paint  —  Rosa  Bonheur's  "  Labourage 
Nivernais  " —  Hebert's  ' '  Malaria  " —  Cou- 
ture's  "Decadent  Romans." 

And  in  the  formal  dusty  gardens  were 
the  same  pioupious  and  zouzous  still 
walking  with  the  same  nounous,  or  sitting 
by  their  sides  on  benches  by  basins  with 
gold  and  silver  fish — and  just  the  same 
old  couples  petting  the  same  toutous  and 
loulous!* 

Then  they  thought  they  would  go  and 
lunch  at  le  pere  Trin's — the  Restaurant 
de  la  Couronne,  in  the  Rue  du  Luxem- 
bourg— for  the  sake  of  auld  lang  syne! 
But  when  they  got  there,  the  well-re- 
membered fumes  of  that  little  refectory, 
which  had  once  seemed  not  unappetizing, 
turned  their  stomachs.  So  they  content- 
ed themselves  with  warmly  greeting  le 
pere  Trin,  who  was  quite  overjoyed  to 
see  them  again,  and  anxious  to  turn  the 
whole  establishment  topsy-turvy  that  he 
might  entertain  such  guests  as  they  de- 
served. 

Then  the  Laird  suggested  an  omelet  at 
the  Cafe  de  l'Odeon.     But  Taffy  said,  in 

his  masterful  way,  "D the  Cafe  de 

l'Odeon!" 

And  hailing  a  little  open  fly,  they 
drove  to  Ledoyen's,  or  some  such  place, 
in  the  Champs  Elysees,  where  they  feast- 
ed as  became  three  prosperous  Britons 
out  for  a  holiday  in  Paris  —  trois  mous- 
quetaires — and  afterwards  had  themselves 
driven  in  an  open  carriage  and  pair 
through  the  Bois  de  Boulogne  to  the  fete 
de  St.  Cloud  (or  what  still  remained  of  it, 
for  it  lasts  six  weeks),  the  scene  of  so 

*  Glossat-y. — Pioupiou  (alias  pousse-caillou,  alias 
tourlourou) — a  private  soldier  of  the  line.  Zouzou 
— a  Zouave.  Nounou — a  wet-nurse  with  a  pretty 
ribboned  cap  and  long  streamers.  Toutou — a  non- 
descript French  lapdog,  of  no  breed  known  to 
Englishmen  (a  regular  little  beast!).  Loulou  —  a 
Pomeranian  dog — not  much  better. 


^s^^-^&V^. 


•'•//vfcsL 


"OON    PAIK   DE    GONG   BLONG." 


many  of  Dodor's  and  Zouzou's  exploits  in 
past  years,  and  found  it  more  amusing* 
than  the  Luxembourg  Gardens;  the  frol- 
icsome spirit  of  Dodor  seemed  to  pervade 
it  still. 

But  it  doesn't  want  the  presence  of  a 
Dodor  to  make  the  blue-bloused  sons  of 
the  Gallic  people  (and.  its  neatly  shod, 
white -capped  daughters)  delightful  to 
watch  as  they  take  their  pleasure.  And 
the  Laird  (thinking  perhaps  of  Hamp- 
stead  Heath  on  an  Easter  Monday)  must 
not  be  blamed  for  once  more  quoting  his 
favorite  phrase — the  pretty  little  phrase 
with  which  the  most  humorous  and  least 
exemplary  of  British  parsons  began  his 
famous  journey  to  France. 

When  they  came  back  to  the  hotel  to 
dress  and  dine,  the  Laird  found  he  want- 
ed a  pair  of  white  gloves  for  the  concert — 
"  Oon  pair  de  gong  blong,"  as  he  called 
it — and  they  walked  along  the  boulevards 
till  they  came  to  a  haberdasher's  shop  of 
very  good  and  prosperous  appearance, 
and  going  in,  were  received  graciously  by 
the  "patron,"  a  portly  little  bourgeois, 
who  waved  them  to  a  tall  and  aristocratic 
and  very  well  dressed  young  commis  be- 
hind the  counter,  saying,  "  Une  paire  de 
gants  blancs  pour  monsieur." 


And  what  was  the  surprise  of  our  three 
friends  in  recognizing  Dodor! 

The  gay  Dodor,  Dodor  1 'irresistible, 
quite  unembarrassed  by  his  position,  was 
exuberant  in  his  delight  at  seeing  them 
again,  and  introduced  them  to  the  patron 
and  his  wife  and  daughter,  Monsieur,  Ma- 
dame, and  Mademoiselle  Passefil.  And 
it  soon  became  pretty  evident  that,  in 
spite  of  his  humble  employment  in  that 
house,  he  was  a  great  favorite  in  that 
family,  and  especially  with  mademoiselle. 

Indeed,  Monsieur  Passefil  invited  our 
three  heroes  to  stay  and  dine  then  and 
there ;  but  they  compromised  matters  by 
asking  Dodor  to  come  and  dine  with  them 
at  the  hotel,  and  he  accepted  with  alac- 
rity. 

Thanks  to  Dodor,  the  dinner  was  a  very 
lively  one,  and  they  soon  forgot  the  re- 
gretful impressions  of  the  day. 

They  learnt  that  he  hadn't  got  a  penny 
in  the  world,  and  had  left  the  army,  and 
had  for  two  years  kept  the  books  at  le 
pere  PassefiTs  and  served  his  customers, 
and  won  his  good  opinion  and  his  wife's, 
and  especially  his  daughter's,  and  that 
soon  he  was  to  be  not  only  his  employer's 
partner,  but  his  son-in-law;  and  that,  in 
spite  of  his  impecuniosity,  he  had  man- 


76 


HARPER'S    NEW    MONTHLY    MAGAZINE. 


aged  to  impress  them  with  the  fact  that 
in  marrying  a  Rigolot  de  Lafarce  she  was 
making  a  very  splendid  match  indeed! 

His  brother-in-law,  the  Honorable  Jack 
Reeve,  had  Jong  cut  him  for  a  bad  lot. 
But  his  sister,  after  a  while,  had  made 
up  her  mind  that  to  marry  Mile.  Passefil 
wasn't  the  worst  he  could  do;  at  all  events, 
it  would  keep  him  out  of  England,  and 
that  was  a  comfort !  And  passing  through 
Paris,  she  had  actually  cal  led  on  the  Passe- 
fil family,  and  they  had  fallen  prostrate 
before  such  splendor;  and  no  wonder,  for 
Mrs.  Jack  Reeve  was  one  of  the  most 
beautiful,  elegant,  and  fashionable  women 
in  London,  the  smartest  of  the  smart. 

"  And  how  about  l'Zouzou?"  asked  Lit- 
tle Billee. 

"  Ah,  old  Gontran  !  I  don't  see  much 
of  him.  We  no  longer  quite  move  in  the 
same  circles,  you  know;  not  that  he's 
proud,  or  me  either!  but  he's  a  sub-lieu 


tenant  in  the  Guides— an  officer !  Besides, 
his  brother's  dead,  and  he's  the  Due  de  la 
Rochemartel,  and  a  special  pet  of  the  Em- 
press; he  makes  her  laugh  more  than 
anybody!  He's  looking  out  for  the  big- 
gest heiress  he  can  find,  and  he's  pretty 
safe  to  catch  her,  with  such  a  name  as 
that!  In  fact,  they  say  he's  caught  her 
already — Miss  Lavinia  Hunks,  of  Chica- 
go. Twenty  million  dollars!  At  least 
so  the  Figaro  says !" 

Then  he  gave  them  news  of  other  old 
friends;  and  they  did  not  part  till  it  was 
time  for  them  to  go  to  the  Cirque  des  Ba- 


shibazoucks,  and  after  they  had  arranged 
to  dine  with  his  future  family  on  the  fol- 
lowing day. 

In  the  Rue  St.-Honore  was  a  long  dou- 
ble file  of  cabs  and  carriages  slowly  mov- 
ing along  to  the  portals  of  that  huge  hall, 
Le  Cirque  des  Bashibazoucks.  Is  it  there 
still,  I  wonder?  I  don't  mind  betting 
not!  Just  at  this  period  of  the  Second 
Empire  there  was  a  mania  for  demolition 
and  remolition  (if  there  is  such  a  word), 
and  I  have  no  doubt  my  Parisian  readers 
would  search  the  Rue  St.-Honore  for  the 
Salle  des  Bashibazoucks  in  vain  ! 

Our  friends  were  shown  to  their  stalls, 
and  looked  round  in  surprise.  This  was  be- 
fore the  days  of  the  Albert  Hall,  and  they 
had  never  been  in  such  a  big  place  of  the 
kind  before,  or  one  so  regal  in  aspect,  so 
gorgeously  imperial  with  white  and  gold 
and  crimson  velvet,  so  dazzling  with  light, 
so  crammed  with  people  from  floor  to 
roof,  and  cramming  itself  still. 

A  platform  carpeted  with  crimson  cloth 
had  been  erected  in  front  of  the  gates 
where  the  horses  had  once  used  to  come 
in,  and  their  fair  riders,  and  the  two  jolly 
English  clowns,  and  the  beautiful  noble- 
man with  the  long  frock-coat  and  brass 
buttons,  and  soft  high  boots,  and  four-in- 
hand  whip — "  la  chambriere." 

In  front  of  this  was  a  lower  stand  for 
the  orchestra.  The  circus  itself  was  filled 
with  stalls — stalles  d'orchestre.  A  pair  of 
crimson  curtains  hid  the  entrance  to  the 
platform  at  the  back,  and  by  each  of  these 
stood  a  small  page,  ready  to  draw  it  aside 
and  admit  the  diva. 

The  entrance  to  the  orchestra  was  by  a 
small  door  under  the  platform,  and  some 
thirty  or  forty  chairs  and  music-stands, 
grouped  around  the  conductor's  estrade, 
were  waiting  for  the  band. 

Little  Billee  looked  round,  and  recog- 
nized many  countrymen  and  countrywo- 
men of  his  own — many  great  musical  ce- 
lebrities especially,  whom  he  had  often 
met  in  London.  Tiers  upon  tiers  of  peo- 
ple rose  up  all  round  in  a  widening  circle, 
and  lost  themselves  in  a  hazy  mist  of  light 
at  the  top — it  was  like  a  picture  by  Mar- 
tin !  In  the  imperial  box  were  the  Eng- 
lish ambassador  and  his  family,  with  an 
august  British  personage  sitting  in  the 
middle,  in  front,  his  broad  blue  ribbon 
across  his  breast  and  his  opera-glass  to  his 
royal  eyes. 

Little  Billee  had  never  felt  so  excited, 


so  exhilarated,  by  such  a  show 
before,  nor  so  full  of  eager  an- 
ticipation. He  looked  at  his 
programme,  and  saw  that  the 
Hungarian  band  (the  first  that 
had  yet  appeared  in  western 
Europe,  I  believe)  would  play 
an  overture  of  gypsy  dances. 
Then  Madame  Svengali  would 
sing  "un  air  connu,  sans  ac- 
compagnement,"  and  after- 
wards other  airs,  including  the 
1 '  Nussbaum  "  of  Schumann  (for 
the  first  time  in  Paris,  it  seemed). 
Then  a  rest  of  ten  minutes;  then 
more  csardas;  then  the  diva 
would  sing  "  Malbrouck  s'en 
va-t'en  guerre,"  of  all  things  in 
the  world !  and  finish  up  with 
44  un  impromptu  de  Chopin, 
sans  paroles." 

Truly  a  somewhat  incongru- 
ous bill  of  fare ! 

Close  on  the  stroke  of  nine 
the  musicians  came  in  and  took 
their  seats.  They  were  dressed 
in  the  foreign  hussar  uniform 
that  has  now  become  so  famil- 
iar. The  first  violin  had  scarce- 
ly sat  down  before  our  friends 
recognized  in  him  their  old 
friend  Gecko. 

Just  as  the  clock  struck, 
Svengali,  in  irreproachable 
evening  dress,  tall  and  stout 
and  quite  splendid  in  appear- 
ance, notwithstanding  his  long 
black  mane  (which  had  been 
curled),  took  his  place  at  his 
desk.  Our  friends  would  have 
known  him  at  a  glance,  in 
spite  of  the  wTonderful  altera- 
tion time  and  prosperity  had 
wrought  in  his  outward  man. 

He  bowed  right  and  left  to 
the  thunderous  applause  that  greeted 
him,  gave  his  three  little  baton-taps,  and 
the  lovely  music  began  at  once.  We 
have  grown  accustomed  to  strains  of  this 
kind  during  the  last  twenty  years;  but 
they  were  new  then,  and  their  strange  se- 
duction was  a  surprise  as  wTell  as  an  en- 
chantment. 

Besides,  no  such  band  as  Svengali's  had 
ever  been  heard,  and  in  listening  to  this 
overture  the  immense  crowd  almost  for- 
got that  it  was  a  mere  preparation  for  a 
great  musical  event,  and  tried  to  encore 
it.      But  Svengali  merelv  turned  round 


IT    WAS    TRILBY. 


and  bowed — there  were  to  be  no  encores 
that  night. 

Then  a  moment  of  silence  and  breath- 
less suspense — curiosity  on  tiptoe! 

Then  the  two  little  page-boys  each  drew 
a  silken  rope,  and  the  curtains  parted  and 
looped  themselves  up  on  each  side  sym- 
metrically; and  a  tall  female  figure  ap- 
peared, clad  in  what  seemed  like  a  clas- 
sical dress  of  cloth  of  gold,  embroidered 
with  garnets  and  beetles'  wings ;  her 
snowy  arms  and  shoulders  bare,  a  gold 
coronet  of  stars  on  her  head,  her  thick 
light  brown  hair  tied  behind  and  flowing 


78 


HARPER'S  NEW  MONTHLY  MAGAZINE. 


1(AU   CLAIR   DE   LA   LUNE. " 


all  down  her  back  to  nearly  her  knees, 
like  those  ladies  in  hair-dressers'  shops 
who  sit  with  their  backs  to  the  plate-glass 
window  to  advertise  the  merits  of  some 
particular  hair-wash. 

She  walked  slowly  down  to  the  front, 
her  hands  hanging-  at  her  sides  in  quite  a 
simple  fashion,  and  made  a  slight  incli- 
nation of  her  head  and  body  towards  the 
imperial  box,  and  then  to  right  and  left. 
Her  lips  and  cheeks  were  rouged  ;  her 
dark  level  eyebrows  nearly  met  at  the 
bridge  of  her  short  high  nose.  Through 
her  parted  lips  you  could  see  her  large 
glistening  white  teeth  ;  her  gray  eyes 
looked  straight  at  Svengali. 

Her  face  was  thin,  and  had  a  rather 
haggard  expression,  in  spite  of  its  artifi- 
cial freshness;  but  its  contour  was  divine, 
and  its  character  so  tender,  so  humble, 
so  touchingly  simple  and  sweet,  that  one 
melted  at  the  sight  of  her.  No  such  mag- 
nificent or  seductive  apparition  has  ever 
been  seen  before  or  since  on  any  stage  or 
platform — not  even  Miss  Ellen  Terry  as 


the  priestess  of  Artemis  in  the 
Laureate's  play,  The  Cup. 

The  house  rose  as  she  came 
down  to  the  front;  and  she 
bowed  again  to  right  and  left, 
and  put  her  hand  to  her  heart 
quite  simply  and  with  a  most 
winning  natural  gesture,  an 
adorable  gaucherie ;  like  a 
graceful  and  unconscious 
school -girl,  quite  innocent  of 
stage  deportment. 

It  was  Trilby  ! 

Trilby  the  tone-deaf,  who 
couldn't  sing  one  single  note 
in  tune !  Trilby,  who  couldn't 
tell  a  C  from  an  F ! ! 

What  was  going  to  happen? 
Our   three   friends   were   al- 
most  turned   to    stone    in    the 
immensity  of  their  surprise. 

Yet  the  big  Taffy  was  trem- 
bling all  over;  the  Laird's  jaw 
had  all  but  fallen  on  to  his 
chest ;  Little  Billee  was  staring, 
staring  his  eyes  almost  out  of 
his  head.  There  was  some- 
thing, to  them,  so  strange  and 
uncanny  about  it  all;  so  op- 
pressive, so  anxious,  so  mo- 
mentous ! 

The  applause  had  at  last  sub- 
sided. Trilby  stood  with  her 
hands  behind  her,  one  foot  (the  left  one) 
on  a  little  stool  that  had  been  left  there 
on  purpose,  her  lips  parted,  her  eyes  on 
Svengali's,  ready  to  begin. 

He  gave  his  three  beats,  and  the  band 
struck  a  chord.  Then,  at  another  beat 
from  him, but  in  her  direction,  she  began, 
without  the  slightest  appearance  of  ef- 
fort, without  any  accompaniment  what- 
ever, he  still  beating  time — conducting 
her,  in  fact,  just  as  if  she  had  been  an 
orchestra  herself: 

"  Au  clair  de  la  lune, 

Mon  ami  Pierrot ! 
Prete-moi  ta  plume 

Pour  ecrire  un  mot. 
Ma  chandelle  est  morte.  .  . 

Je  n'ai  plus  de  feu! 
Ouvre-moi  ta  porte 

Pour  l'amour  de  Dieu  I" 

This  was  the  absurd  old  nursery  rhyme 
with  which  la  Svengali  chose  to  make  her 
debut  before  the  most  critical  audience  in 
the  world !  She  sang  it  three  times  over 
—the  same  verse.     There  is  but  one. 


TRILBY. 


79 


The  first  time  she  sang  it  without  any 
expression  whatever — not  the  slightest. 
Just  the  words  and  the  tune;  in  the  mid- 
dle of  her  voice,  and  not  loud  at  all;  just 
as  a  child  sings  who  is  thinking  of  some- 
thing else;  or  just  as  a  young  French 
mother  sings  who  is  darning  socks  by  a 
cradle,  and  rocking  her  baby  to  sleep  with 
her  foot. 

But  her  voice  was  so  immense  in  its 
softness,  richness,  freshness, that  it  seemed 
to  be  pouring  itself  out  from  all  round; 
its  intonation  absolutely,  mathematically 
pure;  one  felt  it  to  be  not  only  faultless, 
but  infallible  ;  and  the  seduction,  the 
novelty  of  it,  the  strangely  sympathetic 
quality  !  How  can  one  describe  the  qual- 
ity of  a  peach  or  a  nectarine  to  those  who 
have  only  known  apples? 

Until  la  Svengali  appeared,  the  world 
had  only  known  apples — Catalanis,  Jen- 
ny Linds,  Grisis,  Albonis,  Pattis!  The 
best  apples  that  can  be,  for  sure — but 
still  only  apples! 

If  she  had  spread  a  pair  of  large  white 
wings  and  gracefully  fluttered  up  to  the 
roof  and  perched  upon  the  chandelier,  she 
could  not  have  produced  a  greater  sensa- 
tion. The  like  of  that  voice  has  never 
been  heard,  nor  ever  will  be  again.  A 
woman  archangel  might  sing  like  that, 
or  some  enchanted  princess  out  of  a  fairy- 
tale. 

Little  Billee  had  already  dropped  his 
face  into  his  hands  and  hid  his  eyes  in 
his  pocket-handkerchief;  a  big  tear  had 
fallen  on  to  Taffy's  left  whisker ;  the 
Laird  was  trying  hard  to  keep  his  tears 
back. 

She  sang  the  verse  a  second  time,  with 
but  little  added  expression  and  no  loud- 
er; but  with  a  sort  of  breathy  widening 
of  her  voice  that  made  it  like  a  broad 
heavenly  smile  of  universal  motherhood 
turned  into  sound.  One  felt  all  the  ge- 
nial gayety  and  grace  and  impish ness  of 
Pierrot  and  Columbine  idealized  into  frol- 
icsome beauty  and  holy  innocence,  as 
though  they  were  performing  for  the 
saints  in  Paradise — a  baby  Columbine, 
with  a  cherub  for  clown!  The  dream  of 
it  all  came  over  you  for  a  second  or  two 
— a  revelation  of  some  impossible  golden 
age — priceless — never  to  be  forgotten  ! 

Little  Billee  had  lost  all  control  over 
himself,  and  was  shaking  with  his  sup- 
pressed sobs — Little  Billee,  who  hadn't 
shed  a  single  tear  for  five  long  years! 
Half  the  people   in   the  house   were   in 


tears,  but  tears  of  sheer  delight,  of  deli- 
cate inner  laughter. 

Then  she  came  back  to  earth,  and  sad- 
dened and  veiled  and  darkened  her  voice 
as  she  sang  the  verse  for  the  third  time; 
and  it  was  a  great  and  sombre  tragedy, 
too  deep  for  any  more  tears;  and  some- 
how or  other  poor  Columbine,  forlorn 
and  betrayed  and  dying,  out  in  the  cold 
at  midnight — sinking  down  to  hell,  per- 
haps— was  making  her  last  frantic  ap- 
peal! It  was  no  longer  Pierrot  and  Col- 
umbine— it  was  Marguerite — it  was  Faust! 


OUVRE-MOI   TA   PORTE 

POUR   L,' AMOUR  DE   DIEU!" 


It  was  the  most  terrible  and  pathetic  of 
all  possible  human  tragedies,  but  ex- 
pressed with  no  dramatic  or  histrionic 
exaggeration  of  any  sort;  by  mere  tone, 
slight  subtle  changes  in  the  quality  of  the 
sound — too  quick  and  elusive  to  be  taken 
count  of,  but  to  be  felt  with,  oh,  what 
poignant  sympathy! 


80 


HARPER'S    NEW    MONTHLY    MAGAZINE. 


When  the  song  was  over,  the  applause 
did  not  come  immediately,  and  she  wait- 
ed with  her  kind   wide  smile,  as  if  she 
were  well  accustomed  to  wait  like  this; 
and  then  the  storm  began,  and 
grew  and   spread   and   rattled 
and  echoed — voice,  hands,  feet, 
sticks,  umbrellas!— and    down 
came  the  bouquets,  which  the 
little  page-boys  picked  up ;  and 
Trilby  bowed  to  front  and  right 
and  left  in  her  simple  debon- 


MALBROUCK  S  EN  VA-TEN  GUERRE. 


naire  fashion.  It  was  her  usual  triumph. 
It  had  never  failed,  whatever  the  audience, 
whatever  the  country,  whatever  the  song. 

Little  Billee  didn't  applaud.  He  sat 
with  his  head  in  his  hands,  his  shoulders 
still  heaving.  He  believed  himself  to  be 
fast  asleep  and  in  a  dream,  and  was  try- 
ing his  utmost  not  to  wake;  for  a  great 
happiness  was  his.  It  was  one  of  those 
nights  to  be  marked  with  a  white  stone! 

As  the  first  bars  of  the  song  came 
pouring  out  of  her  parted  lips  (whose 
shape  he  so  well  remembered),  and  her 
dovelike  eyes  looked  straight  over  Sven- 
gali's  head,  straight  in  his  own  direction 
— nay,  at  him — something  melted  in  his 
brain,  and  all  his  long-lost  power  of  lov- 
ing came  back  with  a  rush. 

It  was  like  the  sudden  curing  of  a  deaf- 
ness that  has  been  lasting  for  years.  The 
doctor  blows  through  your  nose  into  your 


Eustachian  tube  with  a  little  India-rubber 
machine;  some  obstacle  gives  way,  there 
is  a  snap  in  your  head,  and  straightway 
you  hear  better  than  you  had  ever  heard 
in  all  your  life, 
almost  too  well; 
„  and  all  your  life 

is  once  more 
changed  for  you ! 
At  length  he  sat 
up  again,  in  the 
middle  of  la  S  ven- 
gali's  singing  of 
the  "Nussbaum," 
and  saw  her;  and 
saw  the  Laird 
sitting  by  him, 
and  Taffy,  their 
eyes  riveted  on 
Trilby,  and  knew 
for  certain  that  it 
was  no  dream  this 
time,  and  his  joy 
was  almost  a  pain  ! 
She  sang  the ' '  Nussbaum" 
(to  its  heavenly  accompani- 
ment) as  simply  as  she  had 
sung  the  previous  song. 
Every  separate  note  was 
a  highly  finished  gem  of 
sound,  linked  to  the  next  by 
a  magic  bond.  You  did  not  require  to  be 
a  lover  of  music  to  fall  beneath  the  spell 
of  such  a  voice  as  that;  the  mere  melodic 
phrase  had  all  but  ceased  to  matter.  Her 
phrasing,  consummate  as  it  was,  was  as 
simple  as  a  child's. 

It  was  as  if  she  said:  "See!  what  does 
the  composer  count  for  ?  Here  is  about 
as  beautiful  a  song  as  was  ever  written, 
with  beautiful  words  to  match,  and  the 
words  have  been  made  French  for  you 
by  one  of  your  smartest  poets !  But  what 
do  the  words  signify,  any  more  than  the 
tune,  or  even  the  language?  The  '  Nuss- 
baum' is  neither  better  nor  worse  than 
'Mon  ami  Pierrot'  when  Jam  the  sing- 
er; for  I  am  Svengali;  and  you  shall 
hear  nothing,  see  nothing,  think  of  no- 
thing, but  Svengali,  Svengali,  Svengali /" 
It  was  the  apotheosis  of  voice  and  vir- 
tuosity! It  was  "il  bel  canto"  come 
back  to  earth  after  a  hundred  years — the 
bel  canto  of  Vivarelli,  let  us  say,  who  sang 
the  same  song  every  night  to  the  same 
King  of  Spain  for  a  quarter  of  a  cen- 
tury, and  was  rewarded  with  a  duke- 
dom, and  wealth  beyond  the  dreams  of 
avarice. 


TRILBY. 


81 


And,  indeed,  here  was  this  immense 
audience,  made  up  of  the  most  cynically- 
critical  people  in  the  world,  and  the  most 
anti-German,  assisting  with  rapt  ears  and 
streaming  eyes  at  the  imagined  spectacle 
of  a  simple  German  damsel,  a  Madchen, 
a  Fraulein,  just  ''verlobte" —  a  future 
Hausfrau — sitting  under  a  walnut-tree  in 
some  suburban  garden — a  Berlin! — and 
around  her,  her  family  and  their  friends, 
probably  drinking  beer  and  smoking  long 
porcelain  pipes,  and  talking  politics  or 
business,  and  cracking  innocent  elaborate 
old  German  jokes;  with  bated  breath, 
lest  they  should  disturb  her  maiden  dream 
of  love!  And  all  as  though  it  were  a 
scene  in  Elysium,  and  the  Fraulein  a 
nymph  of  many-fountained  Ida,  and  her 
people  Olympian  gods  and  goddesses. 

And  such,  indeed,  they  were  when  Tril- 
by sang  of  them ! 

After  this,  when  the  long,  frantic  ap- 
plause had  subsided,  she  made  a  gracious 
bow  to  the  royal  British  opera  -  glass 
(which  had  never  left  her  face),  and  sang 
"Ben  Bolt"  in  English! 

And  then  Little  Billee  remembered 
there  was  such  a  person  as  Svengali  in 
the  world,  and  recalled  his  little  flexible 
flageolet ! 

"That  is  how  I  teach  Gecko  ;  that  is 
how  I  teach  la  bedite  Honorine  ;  that  is 
how  I  teach  il  bel  canto.  ...  It  was  lost, 
il  bel  canto — and  I  found  it  in  a  dream — 
I,  Svengali!" 

And  his  old  cosmic  vision  of  the  beau- 
ty and  sadness  of  things,  the  very  heart 
of  them,  and  their  pathetic  evanescence, 
came  back  with  a  tenfold  clearness — that 
heavenly  glimpse  beyond  the  veil !  And 
with  it  a  crushing  sense  of  his  own  infin- 
itesimal significance  by  the  side  of  this 
glorious  pair  of  artists,  one  of  whom  had 
been  his  friend  and  the  other  his  love — 
a  love  who  had  offered  to  be  his  humble 
mistress  and  slave,  not  feeling  herself 
good  enough  to  be  his  wife! 

It  made  him  sick  and  faint  to  remem- 
ber, and  filled  him  with  hot  shame,  and 
then  and  there  his  love  for  Trilby  be- 
came as  that  of  a  dog  for  its  master! 

She  sang  once  more — "Chanson  de 
Printemps,"  by  Gounod  (who  was  pres- 
ent, and  seemed  very  hysterical),  and  the 
first  part  of  the  concert  was  over,  and 
people  had  time  to  draw  breath  and  talk 
over  this  new  wonder,  this  revelation  of 
what  the  human  voice  could  achieve; 
and  an  immense  hum   filled  the  hall — 


astonishment,  enthusiasm,  ecstatic  de- 
light ! 

But  our  three  friends  found  little  to  say 
— for  what  they  felt  there  were  as  yet  no 
words ! 

Taffy  and  the  Laird  looked  at  Little 
Billee,  who  seemed  to  be  looking  inwards 
at  some  transcendent  dream  of  his  own 
with  red  eyes,  and  his  face  all  pale  and 
drawn,  and  bis  nose  very  pink,  and  rather 
thicker  than  usual ;  and  the  dream  ap- 
peared to  be  out  of  the  common  blissful, 
though  his  eyes  were  swimming  still,  for 
his  smile  was  almost  idiotic  in  its  rapt- 
ure! 

The  second  part  of  the  concert  was  still 
shorter  than  the  first,  and  created,  if  pos- 
sible, a  wilder  enthusiasm. 

Trilby  only  sang  twice. 

Her  first  song  was  "  Malbrouck  s'en 
va-t'eu  guerre." 

She  began  it  quite  lightly  and  merrily, 
like  a  jolly  march ;  in  the  middle  of  her 
voice,  which  had  not  as  yet  revealed  any 
exceptional  compass  or  range.  People 
laughed  quite  frankly  at  the  first  verse: 

"  Malbrouck  s'en  va-t'en  guerre — 
Mironton,  mironton,  mirontaine  I 
Malbrouck  s'en  va-t'eu  guerre.  .  . 
Ne  sais  quand  revieudra ! 
Ne  sais  quaud  reviendra ! 
Ne  sais  quaud  revieudra !" 

The  mironton  mirontaine  was  the  very- 
essence  of  high  martial  resolve  and  hero- 
ic self-confidence;  one  would  have  led  a 
forlorn  hope  after  hearing  it  once ! 

"  II  reviendra-z-a  Paques — 

Mironton,  mironton,  mirontaine  ! 
II  revieudra-z-a  Paques.  .  . 
Ou  ...  a  la  Trimte !" 

People  still  laughed,  though  the  mi- 
ronton mirontaine  betrayed  an  uncom- 
fortable sense  of  the  dawning  of  doubts 
and  fears — vague  forebodings! 

"  La  Triuite  se  passe  — 

Mironton,  mironton,  mirontaine  ! 
La  Triuite  se  passe.  .  . 

Malbrouck  ne  revient  pas  !" 

And  here,  especially  in  the  mironton 
mirontaine,  a  note  of  anxiety  revealed 
itself— so  poignant,  so  acutely  natural 
and  human,  that  it  became  a  personal 
anxiety  of  one's  own,  causing  the  heart 
to  beat,  and  one's  breath  was  short. 

"  Madame  a  sa  tour  monte — 

Mironton,  mironton,  mirontaine  ! 
Madame  a  sa  tour  monte, 

Si  haut  qu'elle  peut  monter!" 

Oh !     How  one's  heart  went  with  her ! 


82 


HARPER'S  NEW  MONTHLY  MAGAZINE. 


Do  you  see  any- 


Anne!     Sister  Anne 
thing? 

"  Elle  voit  de  loin  son  page — 

Mironton,  mironton,  mirontaine  ! 
Elle  voit  de  loin  son  page, 
Tout  de  noir  habille !" 

One  is  almost  sick  with  the  sense  of 
impending  calamity— it  is  all  but  unbear- 
able! 

"  Mon  page — mon  beau  page  ! — 

Mironton,  mironton,  mirontaiue  ! 
Mon  page — mon  beau  page ! 
Quelle  nouvelle  apportez?" 

And  here  Little  Billee  begins  to  weep 
again,  and  so  does  everybody  else!  The 
mironto?i  mirontaiue  is  an  agonized  wail 
of  suspense — poor  bereaved  duchess! — 
poor  Sarah  Jennings!  Did  it  all  an- 
nounce itself  to  you  just  like  that? 

All  this  while  the  accompaniment  had 
been  quite  simple — just  a  few  obvious  or- 
dinary chords. 

But  now,  quite  suddenly,  without  a  sin- 
gle modulation  or  note  of  warning,  down 
goes  the  tune  a  full  major  third,  from  E 
to  C — into  the  graver  depths  of  Trilby's 
great  contralto — so  solemn  and  ominous 
that  there  is  no  more  weeping, but  the  flesh 
creeps;    the    accompaniment   slows    and 


"aux  nouvelle  que  j'apporte, 

VOS   BEAUX    YEUX    VONT   PLEURER!' 


elaborates  itself;  the  march  becomes  a  fu- 
neral march,  with  muted  strings,  and 
quite  slowly  : 

"Aux  nouvelle  que  j'apporte — 

Mironton,  mironton,  mirontaine  I 
Aux  nouvelle  que  j'apporte, 
Vos  beaux  yeux  vont  pleurer!" 

Richer  and  richer  grows  the  accompa- 
niment. The  mironton  mirontaine  be- 
comes a  dirge ! 

"Quittez  vos  habits  roses — 

Mironton,  mironton,  mirontaine  ! 
Quittez  vos  habits  roses, 
Et  vos  satins  broches !" 

Here  the  ding-donging  of  a  big  bell 
seems  to  mingle  with  the  score;  .  .  .  and 
very  slowly,  and  so  impressively  that  the 
news  will  ring  forever  in  the  ears  and 
hearts  of  those  who  hear  it  from  la  Sven- 
gali's  lips: 

"  Le  Sieur  Malbrouclc  est  rnort — 
Mironton,  mironton,  mirontaine! 
Le  Sieur — Malbrouck — est — rnort ! 
Est  rnort — et  enterre  !" 

And  thus  it  ends  quite  abruptly! 
And   this   heart-rending   tragedy,  this 
great  historical  epic  in  two  dozen  lines, 
at  which  some  five  or  six  thousand  gay 
French  people  are  sniffing  and  mopping 
their  eyes  like  so 
many     Niobes,    is 
just     a     common 
old  French  comic 
song— a  mere  nur- 
sery    ditty,     like 
"Little   Bo-peep" 
— to  the  tune, 

"  We  won't  go  home 
till  morning, 
Till     daylight     doth 
appear.  .  ." 

And  after  a  second 
or  two  of  silence 
(oppressive  and 
impressive  as  that 
which  occurs  at  a 
burial  when  the 
handful  of  earth  is 
being  dropped  on 
tothecoffinlid)the 
audience  bursts 
once  more  into 
madness  ;  and  la 
Svengali,  who  ac- 
cepts no  encores, 
has  to  bow  for  near- 
ly five  minutes, 
standing  amidst  a 
sea  of  flowers.  .  . 


UN   IMPROMPTU    DE    CHOPIN. 


Then  comes  her  great  and  final  per- 
formance. The  orchestra  swiftly  plays 
the  first  four  bars  of  the  bass  in  Chopin's 
Impromptu  (A  flat) ;  and  suddenly,  with- 
out wTords,  as  a  light  nymph  catching  the 
whirl  of  a  double  skipping-rope,  la  Sven- 
gali  breaks  in,  and  vocalizes  that  astound- 
ing piece  of  music  that  so  few  pianists 
can  even  play;  but  no  pianist  has  ever 
played  it  like  this;  no  piano  has  ever 
given  out  such  notes  as  these! 

Every  single  phrase  is  a  string  of  per- 
fect gems,  of  purest  ray  serene,  strung  to- 
gether on  a  loose  golden  thread!  The 
higher  and  shriller  she  sings,  the  sweeter 
it  is;  higher  and  shriller  than  any  wo- 
man had  ever  sung  before. 

Waves  of  sweet  and  tender  laughter, 
the  very  heart  and  essence  of  innocent, 
high-spirited  girlhood,  alive  to  all  that  is 
simple  and  joyous  and  elementary  in  na- 
ture—the freshness  of  the  morning,  the 
ripple  of  the  stream,  the  click  of  the  mill, 
the  wind  in  the  trees,  the  song  of  the 
lark  in  the  cloudless  sky — the  sun  and  the 
dew,  the  scent  of  early  flowers  and  sum- 
mer woods  and  meadows — the  sight  of 
birds  and  bees  and  butterflies  and  frolic- 
some young  animals  at  play — all  the  sights 
and  scents  and  sounds  that  are  the  birth- 
right of  happy  children,  happy  savages 
in  favored  climes — things  within  the  re- 
membrance and  the  reach  of  most  of  us! 

Vol.  LXXXIX  — No.  529.-8 


All  this,  the  memory  and  the  feel  of  it, 
are  in  Trilby's  voice  as  she  warbles  that 
long  smooth  lilting  dancing  laugh,  that 
wondrous  song  without  words;  and  those 
who  hear  feel  it  all,  and  remember  it 
with  her.  It  is  irresistible;  it  forces  it- 
self on  you;  no  words,  no  pictures,  could 
ever  do  the  like!  So  that  the  tears  that 
are  shed  out  of  all  these  many  French 
eyes  are  tears  of  pure,  unmixed  delight 
in  happy  reminiscence!  (Chopin,  it  is 
true,  may  have  meant  something  quite 
different— a  hot-house,  perhaps,  with  or- 
chids and  arum  lilies  and  tuberoses  and 
hydrangeas — but  that  is  neither  here  nor 
there.) 

Then  comes  the  slow  movement,  the 
sudden  adagio,  with  its  capricious  orna- 
ments— the  waking  of  the  virgin  heart, 
the  stirring  of  the  sap,  the  dawn  of  love ; 
its  doubts  and  fears  and  questionings; 
and  the  mellow,  powerful,  deep  chest 
notes  are  like  the  pealing  of  great  golden 
bells,  with  a  light  little  pearl  shower 
tinkling  round — drops  from  the  fringe  of 
her  grand  voice  as  she  shakes  it.  .  . 

Then  back  again  the  quick  part,  da 
capo,  only  quicker!  hurry,  hurry!  but 
distinct  as  ever.  Loud  and  shrill  and 
sweet  beyond  compare — drowning  the  or- 
chestra ;  of  a  piercing  quality  quite  inef- 
fable; a  joy  there  is  no  telling;  a  clear 
purling  crystal  stream  that  gurgles  and 


84 


HARPER'S   NEW    MONTHLY    MAGAZINE. 


foams  and  bubbles  along  over  sunlit 
stones;  "a  wonder,  a  world's  delight!" 

And  there  is  not  a  sign  of  effort,  of  dif- 
ficulty overcome.  All  through,  Trilby- 
smiles  her  broad  angelic  smile;  her  lips 
well  parted,  her  big  white  teeth  glisten- 
ing as  she  gently  jerks  her  head  from 
side  to  side  in  time  to  Svengali's  baton, 
as  if  to  shake  the  notes  out  quicker  and 
higher  and  shriller.  .  . 

And  in  a  minute  or  two  it  is  all  over, 
like  the  lovely  bouquet  of  fireworks  at 
the  end  of  the  show,  and  she  lets  what 
remains  of  it  die  out  and  away  like  the 
after-glow  of  fading  Bengal  fires — her 
voice  receding  into  the  distance— coming 
back  to  you  like  an  echo  from  all  round, 
from  anywhere  you  please — quite  soft — 
hardly  more  than  a  breath,  but  such  a 
breath !  Then  one  last  chromatically  as- 
cending rocket,  pianissimo,  up  to  E  in 
alt,  and  then  darkness  and  silence! 

And  after  a  little  pause  the  many- 
headed  rises  as  one,  and  waves  its  hats 
and  sticks  and  handkerchiefs,  and  stamps 
and  shouts  .  .  .  "Vive  la  Svengali!  Vive 
la  Svengali!" 

Svengali  steps  on  to  the  platform  by 
his  wife's  side  and  kisses  her  hand;  and 
they  both  bow  themselves  backwards 
through  the  curtains,  which  fall,  to  rise 
again  and  again  and  again  on  this  as- 
tounding pair! 

Such  was  la  Svengali's  debut  in  Paris. 

It  had  lasted  little  over  an  hour,  one 
quarter  of  which,  at  least,  had  been  spent 
in  plaudits  and  courtesies ! 

The  writer  is  no  musician,  alas!  (as,  no 
doubt,  his  musical  readers  have  found  out 
by  this)  save  in  his  thraldom  to  music  of 
not  too  severe  a  kind,  and  laments  the 
clumsiness  and  inadequacy  of  this  wild 
(though  somewhat  ambitious)  attempt  to 
recall  an  impression  received  more  than 
thirty  years  ago;  to  revive  the  blessed 
memory  of  that  unforgettable  first  night 
at  the  Cirque  des  Bashibazoucks. 

Would  that  I  could  transcribe  here 
Berlioz's  famous  series  of  twelve  articles, 
entitled  "la  Svengali,"  which  were  re- 
published from  La  Lyre  Eolienne,  and 
are  now  out  of  print! 

OrTheophile  Gautier's  elaborate  rhap- 
sody, "Madame  Svengali  —  Ange,  ou 
Femme?"  in  which  he  proves  that  one 
need  not  have  a  musical  ear  (he  hadn't) 
to  be  enslaved  by  such  a  voice  as  hers, 
any  more  than  the  eye  for  beauty  (this 
he  had)  to  fall  the  victim  of  "her  celes- 


tial form  and  face."  I  forget  in  which 
journal  this  eloquent  tribute  appeared ;  it 
is  not  to  be  found  in  his  collected  works. 

Or  the  intemperate  diatribe  by  Herr 
Blagner  (as  I  will  christen  him)  on  the 
tyranny  of  the  prima  donna,  called 
"Svengalismus";  in  which  he  attempts 
to  show  that  mere  virtuosity  carried  to 
such  a  pitch  is  mere  viciosity — base  acro- 
batismus  of  the  vocal  chords,  a  hysteric 
appeal  to  morbid  Gallic  "sentimentalis- 
mus";  and  that  this  monstrous  develop- 
ment of  a  phenomenal  larynx,  this  de- 
grading cultivation  and  practice  of  the 
abnormalismus  of  a  mere  physical  pecul- 
iarity, are  death  and  destruction  to  all 
true  music,  since  they  place  Mozart  and 
Beethoven,  and  even  himself,  on  a  level 
with  Bellini,  Donizetti,  Offenbach  —  any 
Italian  tune-tinkler,  any  ballad-monger 
of  the  hated  Paris  pavement!  and  can 
make  the  highest  music  of  all  (even  his 
own)  go  down  with  the  common  French 
herd  at  the  very  first  hearing,  just  as  if 
it  were  some  idiotic  refrain  of  the  cafe 
chantant! 

So  much  for  Blagnerismus  v.  Svenga- 
lismus. 

But  I  fear  there  is  no  space,  within  the 
limits  of  this  humble  tale,  for  these  mas- 
terpieces of  technical  musical  criticism. 

Besides,  there  are  other  reasons. 

Our  three  heroes  walked  back  to  the 
boulevards,  the  only  silent  ones  amid  the 
throng  that  poured  through  the  Rue  St.- 
Honore,  as  the  Cirque  des  Bashibazoucks 
emptied  itself  of  its  over -excited  audi- 
ence. 

They  went  arm  in  arm,  as  usual;  but 
this  time  Little  Billee  was  in  the  middle. 
He  wished  to  feel  on  each  side  of  him  the 
warm  and  genial  contact  of  his  two  be- 
loved old  friends.  It  seemed  as  if  they 
had  suddenly  been  restored  to  him,  after 
five  long  years  of  separation ;  his  heart 
was  overflowing  with  affection  for  them, 
too  full  to  speak  just  yet!  Overflowing, 
indeed,  with  the  love  of  love,  the  love  of 
life,  the  love  of  death— the  love  of  all 
that  is,  and  ever  was,  and  ever  will  be! 
just  as  in  his  old  way. 

He  could  have  hugged  them  both  in 
the  open  street,  before  the  whole  world; 
and  the  delight  of  it  was  that  this  was  no 
dream ;  about  that  there  was  no  mistake. 
He  was  himself  again  at  last,  after  five 
years,  and  wide-awake;  and  he  owed  it 
all  to  Trilby ! 


TRILBY. 


85 


And  what  did  he  feel  for  Trilby?  He 
couldn't  tell  yet.  It  was  too  vast  as  yet 
to  be  measured;  and,  alas!  it  was  weight- 
ed with  such  a  burden  of  sorrow  and  re- 
gret that  he  might  well  put  off  the  thought 
of  it  a  little  while  longer,  and  gather  in 
what  bliss  he  might :  like  the  man  whose 
hearing  has  been  restored  after  long  years, 
he  would  revel  in  the  mere  physical  de- 
light of  hearing  for  a  space,  and  not  go 
out  of  his  way  as  yet  to  listen  for  the  bad 
news  that  was  already  in  the  air,  and 
would  come  to  roost  quite  soon  enough. 

Taffy  and  the  Laird  were  silent  also,- 
Trilby's  voice  was  still  in  their  ears  and 
hearts,  her  image  in  their  eyes,  and  utter 
bewilderment  still  oppressed  them  and 
kept  them  dumb. 

It  was  a  warm  and  balmy  night,  almost 
like  midsummer;  and  they  stopped  at  the 
first  cafe  they  met  on  the  Boulevard  de  la 
Madeleine,  and  ordered  bocks  of  beer,  and 
sat  at  a  little  table  on  the  pavement,  the 
only  one  unoccupied;  for  the  cafe  was  al- 
ready crowded,  the  hum  of  lively  talk  was 
great,  and  "la  Svengali"  was  in  every 
mouth. 

The  Laird  was  the  first  to  speak.  He 
emptied  his  bock  at  a  draught,  and  called 
for  another,  and  lit  a  cigar,  and  said, 
"  I  don't  believe  it  was  Trilby,  after  all!" 
It  was  the  first  time  her  name  had  been 
mentioned  between 
them  that  evening — 
and  for  five  years ! 

*'  Good  heavens  !" 
said  Taffy.  ' '  Can  you 
doubt  it?" 

"Oh  yes!  that  was 
Trilby,"  said  Little  Bil- 
lee. 

Then  the  Laird  pro- 
ceeded to  explain  that, 
putting  aside  the  im- 
possibility of  Trilby's 
ever  being  taught  to 
sing  in  tune,  and  her 
well-remembered  loath- 
ing for  Svengali,  he 
had  narrowly  scanned 
her  face  through  his 
opera-glass,  and  found 
that  in  spite  of  a  like- 
ness quite  marvellous 
there  were  well-marked 
differences.  Her  face 
was  narrower  and  long- 
er, her  eyes  larger,  and 
their  expression  not  the 


same;  then  she  seemed  taller  and  stouter, 
and  her  shoulder's  broader  and  more  droop- 
ing, and  so  forth. 

But  the  others  wouldn't  hear  of  it,  and 
voted  him  cracked,  and  declared  they 
even  recognized  the  peculiar  twang  of  her 
old  speaking  voice  in  the  voice  she  now 
sang  with,  especially  when  she  sang  low 
down.  And  they  all  three  fell  to  discuss- 
ing the  wonders  of  her  performance  like 
everybody  else  all  round;  Little  Billee 
leading,  with  an  eloquence  and  a  seeming 
of  technical  musical  knowledge  that  quite 
impressed  them,  and  made  them  feel  hap- 
py and  at  ease;  for  they  were  anxious  for 
his  sake  about  the  effect  this  sudden  and 
so  unexpected  sight  of  her  would  have 
upon  him  after  all  that  had  passed. 

He  seemed  transcendently  happy  and 
elate — incomprehensibly  so,  in  fact — and 
looked  at  them  both  with  quite  a  new 
light  in  his  eyes,  as  if  all  the  music  he 
had  heard  had  trebled  not  only  his  joy  in 
being  alive,  but  his  pleasure  at  being  with 
them.  Evidently  he  had  quite  outgrown 
his  old  passion  for  her,  and  that  was  a 
comfort  indeed ! 

But  Little  Billee  knew  better. 

He  knew  that  his  old  passion  for  her 
had  all  come  back,  and  was  so  overwhelm- 
ing and  immense  that  he  could  not  feel  it 
just  yet,  nor  yet  the  hideous  pangs  of  a 


AND  THE  REMEMBRANCE  OF  THEM — HAND  IN  HAND. 


86 


HARPER'S  NEW  MONTHLY  MAGAZINE. 


jealousy  so  consuming  that  it  would  burn 
up  his  life.  He  gave  himself  another 
twenty-four  hours. 

But  he  had  not  to  wait  so  long.  He 
woke  up  after  a  short  uneasy  sleep  that 
very  night  to  find  that  the  flood  was  over 
him ;  and  he  realized  how  hopelessly,  des- 
perately, wickedly,  insanely  he  loved  this 
woman,  who  might  have  been  his,  but 
was  now  the  wife  of  another  man;  a 
greater  than  he,  and  one  to  whom  she 
owed  it  that  she  was  more  glorious  than 
any  other  woman  on  earth  —  a  queen 
among  queens— a  goddess!  for  what  was 
any  earthly  throne  compared  to  that  she 
established  in  the  hearts  and  souls  of  all 
who  came  within  the  sight  and  hearing 
of  her  !  beautiful  as  she  was  besides  — 
beautiful,  beautiful !  And  what  must  be 
her  love  for  the  man  who  had  taught  her 
and  trained  her,  and  revealed  her  tower- 
ing genius  to  herself  and  the  world! — a 
man  resplendent  also,  handsome  and  tall 
and  commanding— a  great  artist  from  the 
crown  of  his  head  to  the  sole  of  his  foot ! 

And  the  remembrance  of  them — hand 
in  hand,  master  and  pupil,  husband  and 
wife — smiling  and  bowing  in  the  face  of 
all  that  splendid  tumult  they  had  called 
forth  and  could  not  quell,  stung  and  tor- 
tured and  maddened  him  so  that  he  could 
not  lie  still,  but  got  up  and  raged  and 
rampaged  up  and  down  his  hot,  narrow, 
stuffy  bedroom,  and  longed  for  his  old 
familiar  brain-disease  to  come  back  and 
narcotize  his  trouble,  and  be  his  friend, 
and  stay  with  him  till  he  died! 

Where  was  he  to  fly  for  relief  from 
such  new  memories  as  these,  which  would 
never  cease;  and  the  old  memories,  and 
all  the  glamour  and  grace  of  them  that 
had  been  so  suddenly  called  out  of  the 
grave?  And  how  could  he  escape,  now 
that  he  felt  the  sight  of  her  face  and  the 
sound  of  her  voice  would  be  a  craving — 
a  daily  want — like  that  of  some  poor  starv- 
ing outcast  for  warmth  and  meat  and 
drink? 

And  little  innocent,  pathetic,  ineffa- 
ble, well-remembered  sweetnesses  of  her 
changing  face  kept  painting  themselves 
on  his  retina;  and  incomparable  tones  of 
this  new  thing,  her  voice,  her  infinite 
voice,  went  ringing  in  his  head,  till  he 
all  but  shrieked  aloud  in  his  agony. 

And  then  the  poisoned  and  delirious 
sweetness  of  those  mad  kisses, 

"  by  hopeless  fancy  feigned 
On  lips  that  are  for  others  " ! 


And  then  the  grew  some  physical  jea- 
lousy, that  miserable  inheritance  of  all 
artistic  sons  of  Adam,  that  plague  and 
torment  of  the  dramatic  plastic  imagina- 
tion, which  can  idealize  so  well,  and  yet 
realize,  alas !  so  keenly.  After  three  or 
four  hours  spent  like  this,  he  could  stand 
it  no  longer;  madness  was  lying  his  way. 
So  he  hurried  on  a  garment,  and  went 
and  knocked  at  Taffy's  door. 

"Good  God!  what's  the  matter  with 
you?"  exclaimed  the  good  Taffy,  as  Little 
Billee  tumbled  into  his  room,  calling  out, 

"Oh,  Taffy,  Taffy,  I'm  g-g-going  mad, 
I  think!"  And  then,  shivering  all  over, 
and  stammering  incoherently,  he  tried  to 
tell  his  friend  what  was  the  matter  with 
him,  with  great  simplicity. 

Taffy,  in  much  alarm,  slipped  on  his 
trousers,  and  made  Little  Billee  get  into 
his  bed,  and  sat  by  his  side  holding  his 
hand.  He  was  greatly  perplexed,  fearing 
the  recurrence  of  another  attack  like  that 
of  five  years  back.  He  didn't  dare  leave 
him  for  an  instant  to  wake  the  Laird  and 
send  for  a  doctor. 

Suddenly  Little  Billee  buried  his  face 
in  the  pillow  and  began  to  sob,  and  some 
instinct  told  Taffy  this  was  the  best  thing 
that  could  happen.  The  boy  had  always 
been  a  highly  strung,  emotional,  over-ex- 
citable, over-sensitive,  and  quite  uncon- 
trolled mammy's-darling,  cry-baby  sort  of 
chap,  who  had  never  been  to  school.  It 
was  all  a  part  of  his  genius,  and  also  a 
part  of  his  charm.  It  would  do  him  good 
to  have  a  good  blub.  After  a  while  Little 
Billee  grew  quieter,  and  then  suddenly 
he  said,  "What  a  miserable  ass  you  must 
think  me,  what  an  unmanly  duffer!" 

"Why,  my  friend?" 

"Why,  for  going  on  in  this  idiotic  way. 
I  really  couldn't  help  it.  I  went  mad,  I 
tell  you.  I've  been  walking  up  and  down 
my  room  all  night,  till  everything  seemed 
to  go  round." 

"So  have  I." 

"You?     What  for?" 

"The  very  same  reason." 

"  Whatr 

"I  was  just  as  fond  of  Trilby  as  you 
were.    Only  she  happened  to  prefer  you." 

"  Whatr  cried  Little  Billee  again. 
"  You  were  fond  of  Trilby?" 

"  I  believe  you,  my  boy!" 

"In  love  with  her?" 

"  I  believe  you,  my  boy !" 

"  She  never  knew  it,  then !" 

"  Oh  yes,  she  did." 


TEILBY. 


87 


"She  never  told  me, 
then !" 

"Didn't  she?  That's 
like  her.  7  told  her,  at 
all  events.  I  asked  her 
to  marry  me." 

"Well— lam  d d! 

When?" 

"That  day  we  took  her 
to  Meudon,  with  Jean- 
not,  and  dined  at  the 
Garde  Champetre's,  and 
she  danced  the  cancan 
with  Sandy." 

"Well— lam—  And 
she  refused  you?" 

"Apparently  so." 

"Well,  I—  Why  on 
earth  did  she  refuse 
you?" 

"  Oh,  I  suppose  she'd 
already  begun  to  fancy 
you,  my  friend.  II  y  en 
a  toujour s  un  autre  /" 

1 '  Fancy  me  —  prefer 
me — to  you  V 

"Well,  yes.    It  seems 
odd,  eh?  old  fellow?  But 
there's    no    accounting" 
know.     She's   built    on   such   an    ample 
scale   herself,  I   suppose    that   she   likes 
little    'uns  —  contrast,    you    see.       She's 
very  maternal,  I  think.     Besides,  you're 
a  smart  little  chap;  and  you  ain't  half 
bad;  and  you've  got  brains  and  talent, 
and   lots    of  cheek,  and   all   that.      I'm 
rather  &  ponderous  kind  of  party." 

"Well— lam  d d!" 

"  C'est  comme  gal  I  took  it  lying 
down,  you  see." 

"Does  the  Laird  know?" 

"No;  and  I  don't  want  him  to  —  nor 
anybody  else." 

"Taffy,  what  a  regular  downright  old 
trump  you  are !" 

"Glad  you  think  so;  anyhow,  we're 
both  in  the  same  boat,  and  we've  got  to 
make  the  best  of  it.  She's  another  man's 
wife,  and  probably  she's  very  fond  of 
him.  I'm  sure  she  ought  to  be,  cad  as 
he  is,  after  all  he's  done  for  her.  So 
there's  an  end  of  it." 

"Ah!  there'll  never  be  an  end  of  it 
for  me — never — never — oh,  never,  my 
God!  She  would  have  married  me  but 
for  my  mother's  meddling,  and  that  stu- 
pid old  ass,  my  uncle.  What  a  wife! 
Think  of  all  she  must  have  in  her  heart 


I   BELIEVE   YOU,  MY   BOY!" 


for    tastes,   you 


and  brain,  only  to  sing  like  that !  And,  oh 
Lord  !  how  beautiful  she  is — a  goddess ! 
Oh,  the  brow  and  cheek  and  chin !  did 
you  ever  see  anything  like  it?  Oh,  if 
only  I  hadn't  written  and  told  my  mo- 
ther I  was  going  to  marry  her !  why,  we 
should  have  been  man  and  wife  for  five 
years  by  this  time — living  at  Barbizon — 
painting  away  like  mad!  Oh,  what  a 
heavenly  life !  Oh,  curse  all  officious  med- 
dling with  other  people's  affairs!  Oh! 
oh!..." 

"There  you  go  again!  What's  the 
good?  and  where  do  I  come  in,  my 
friend?  /  should  have  been  no  better  off, 
old  fellow — worse  than  ever,  I  think." 

Then  there  was  a  long  silence. 

At  length  Little  Billee  said: 

"Taffy,  I  can't  tell  you  what  a  trump 
you  are.  All  I've  ever  thought  of  you — 
and  God  knows  that's  enough — will  be 
nothing  to  what  I  shall  always  think  of 
you  after  this." 

"  All  right,  old  chap." 

"And  now  I  think  J'm  all  right  again, 
for  a  time — and  I  shall  cut  back  to  bed. 
Good-night!  Thanks  more  than  I  can 
ever  express !"  And  Little  Billee,  restored 
to  his  balance,  cut  back  to  his  own  bed 
just  as  the  day  was  breaking. 
[to  be  continued.] 


A   WAITRESS. 

BY  CONSTANCE  FENIMORE  WOOLSON. 


AS  the  evening  was  delightful,  their 
coffee  was  served  in  the  garden. 
Modesta  brought  out  a  low  table  and  a 
tray;  then  returning  to  the  kitchen,  she 
came  forth  again  with  the  coffee-pot,  fresh 
from  the  fire,  and  filled  the  two  cups,  one 
for  Dennison,  the  other  for  his  guest, 
Edward  Gray.  The  coffee  was  fragrant, 
very  hot,  very  black.  John  Dennison  nev- 
er took  at  night  more  than  this  one  small 
cupful;  but  it  was  necessary  that  the 
quality  of  the  drops  within  should  be  of 
the  purest,  and  Peppino,  the  cook,  knew 
that  he  must  not  fail.  The  dinner  which 
had  preceded  the  coffee  had  been  excel- 
lent. 

They  were  sitting  at  one  end  of  a  flower- 
bordered  walk  which  leads  to  a  terrace 
with  a  parapet;  from  here  opens  out  a 
panorama  of  the  velvety  hills  of  Tuscany, 
with  a  crowd  of  serried  mountain-peaks 
rising  behind  them ;  below,  in  the  narrow 
valley  of  a  winding  stream,  is  the  small 
mediaeval  town  of  Tre  Ponti,  or  Three 
Bridges.  The  garden  retains  a  distinctly 
monastic  air,  though  its  last  monk  took 
leave  of  it  several  hundred  years  ago; 
here  are  no  statues  of  goddesses  and 
muses,  so  common  in  Italy;  instead  there 
are  two  worn  stone  crosses,  with  illegible 
Latin  inscriptions  at  their  bases.  An  ar- 
cade along  one  side  is  paved  with  flag- 
stones, and  has  the  air  of  a  cloister;  at  its 
end  is  a  fresco  representing  a  monk  with 
his  finger  on  his  lips,  as  if  inculcating 
silence ;  the  face  is  dim,  all  save  the  eyes, 
but  these  have  a  strange  vitality,  and  ap- 
pear to  follow  the  gazer  with  intelligence 
as  he  turns  away.  There  are  two  ancient 
sundials,  and  there  is  a  relic  which  ex- 
cites curiosity — a  flight  of  stone  steps  at- 
tached to  a  high  boundary  wall ;  the  steps 
go  up  for  a  distance  of  eight  or  nine  feet, 
and  then  stop,  leading  to  nothing.  On  the 
north  and  west,  where  it  stretches  to  the 
verge  of  the  hill,  the  garden  is  open,  de- 
fended only  by  its  parapet.  Across  its 
south  edge  it  is  shut  in  by  the  irregular 
stone  house  called  Casa  Colombina.  On 
the  east  there  is  the  boundary  wall  al- 
ready mentioned,  and  above  this  wall 
there  rises  outside,  not  fifteen  yards  away, 
a  massive  square  battlemented  tower,  one 
hundred  and  thirty  feet  high,  named  Torre 
Colombina,  or  Tower  of  the  Dove.     This 


tower  is  now  occupied  only  by  owls,  and 
travellers  suppose  vaguely  that  it  belongs 
in  some  way  to  the  little  church  of  Santa 
Lucia,  which  nestles  at  its  feet;  they  even 
fancy  that  it  is  the  campanile  for  Santa 
Lucia's  bells.  But  the  great  stone  Tower 
of  the  Dove  dates  from  the  thirteenth 
century,  and  although  Santa  Lucia  can- 
not be  called  young,  her  two  hundred 
and  fifty  years  are  nothing  to  the  greater 
antiquity  of  her  ponderous  overshadow- 
ing neighbor.  Each  mountain-peak  was 
bathed  in  the  light  of  sunset;  all  was  soft- 
ly fair — the  ineffable  loveliness  of  Italy. 

Modesta  now  came  to  take  the  tray. 
She  was  accompanied  by  a  cat  and  a  dog. 
The  dog  was  a  small  dachshund,  black, 
with  long  silky  ears  and  very  crooked 
paws.  The  cat,  a  sinuous  yellow  matron, 
appeared  to  believe  that  she  was  the  fa- 
vorite, for  she  rubbed  herself  against  her 
mistress's  ankles  caressingly.  As  Modes- 
ta, wTith  murmured  "excuses,"  lifted  the 
tray,  four  kittens  rushed  from  the  house, 
gambolling  and  tumbling  over  each  other; 
they  all  made  their  way  to  her  feet,  round 
which  they  curled  themselves  so  that  she 
walked  in  a  tangle  of  cats.  She  returned 
toward  the  house  with  her  tray,  laughing, 
and  careful  not  to  step  on  them.  The  dog 
waited  a  moment  with  dignity.  "  Here, 
Hannibal!  Here!"  said  Dennison.  But 
the  dachshund  paid  no  attention  to  him; 
he  trotted  back  to  the  house  as  fast  as  his 
short  legs  could  carry  him. 

"  He  is  supposed  to  be  my  property. 
But  he  spends  his  life  in  the  kitchen," 
commented  Dennison. 

"That  girl  of  yours  has  a  passion  for 
animals;  one  might  rather  call  it  a  com- 
passion, perhaps,  for  I  have  even  seen  her 
petting  that  preternaturally  ill-tempered 
and  hideous  donkey  who  turns  your  water- 
wheel,"  remarked  Gray.  "It  seems  to 
extend  in  all  directions,  for  she  runs  out 
to  help  the  old  milkman  up  the  hill  with 
his  cans,  and  she  gives  tidbits  to  that  idiot 
boy  who  haunts  the  main  road." 

"That  isn't  half.  She  feeds  regularly 
two  children  who  live  a  little  below  here, 
on  the  way  down  to  the  valley.  Partly 
she  robs  me  to  do  it,  after  the  easy  Italian 
fashion;  but  she  also  robs  herself — I  have 
had  proof  of  that.  She  almost  always 
has    some    forlorn   object,  varying  any- 


TKILBY.* 

BY  GEORGE  DU  MAURIER. 

$art  Sebentt). 


NEXT  morning  our  three  friends  lay 
late  abed,  and  breakfasted  in  their 
rooms. 

They  had  all  three  passed  "  white 
nights'' — even  the  Laird,  who  had  tossed 
about  and  pressed  a  sleepless  pillow  till 
dawn,  so  excited  had  he  been  by  the 
wonder  of  Trilby's  reincarnation,  so  per- 
plexed by  his  own  doubts  as  to  whether 
it  was  really  Trilby  or  not. 

And  certain  haunting  tones  of  her 
voice,  that  voice  so  cruelly  sweet  (which 
clove  the  stillness  with  a  clang  so  utterly 
new,  so  strangely  heart-piercing  and  se- 
ductive, that  the  desire  to  hear  it  once 
more  became  nostalgic — almost  an  ache !), 
certain  bits  and  bars  and  phrases  of  the 
music  she  had  sung,  unspeakable  felici- 
ties and  facilities  of  execution ;  sudden 
warmths,  fragrances,  tendernesses,  graces, 
depths,  and  breadths;  quick  changes  from 
grave  to  gay,  from  rough  to  smooth,  from 
great  metallic  brazen  clangors  to  soft 
golden  suavities;  all  the  varied  modes  of 
sound  we  try  so  vainly  to  borrow  from 
vocal  nature  by  means  of  wind  and  reed 
and  string  — all  this  "Trilbiness"  kept 
echoing  in  his  brain  all  night  (for  he  was 
of  a  nature  deeply  musical),  and  sleep 
had  been  impossible  to  him. 

"  As  when  we  dwell  upon  a  word  we  know, 
Repeating,  till  the  word  we  know  so  well 
Becomes  a  wonder,  and  we  know  not  why," 

so  dwelt  the  Laird  upon  the  poor  old 
tune  "  Ben  Bolt,"  which  kept  singing  it- 
self over  and  over  again  in  his  tired  con- 
sciousness, and  maddened  him  with  novel, 
strange,  unhackneyed,  unsuspected  beau- 
ties such  as  he  had  never  dreamt  of  in 
any  earthly  music. 

It  had  become  a  wonder,  and  he  knew 
not  why! 

They  spent  what  there  was  left  of  the 
morning  at  the  Louvre,  and  tried  to  inter- 
est themselves  in  the  "  Marriage  of  Cana," 
and  the  "Women  at  the  Well,"  and  Van- 
dyck's  man  with  the  glove,  and  the  little 
princess  of  Velasquez,  and  Lisa  Giocon- 
das  smile :  it  was  of  no  use  trying.  There 
was  no  sight  worth  looking  at  in  all  Paris 
but  Trilby  in  her  golden  raiment;  no 
other  princess  in  the  world;  no  smile  but 


PCENA,   PEDK   CLAUDO. 

hers,  when  through  her  parted  lips  came 
bubbling  Chopin's  Impromptu.  They  had 
not  long  to  stay  in  Paris,  and  they  must 
drink  of  that  bubbling  fountain  once 
more — coute  que  coute !  They  went  to 
the  Salle  des  Bashibazoucks,  and  found 
that  all  seats  all  over  the  house  had  been 
taken  for  days  and  weeks;  and  the 
"queue"  at  the  door  had  already  begun! 
and  they  had  to  give  up  all  hopes  of 
slaking  this  particular  thirst. 

Then  they  went  and  lunched  perfunc- 
torily, and  talked  desultorily  over  lunch, 
and  read  criticisms  of  Trilby's  debut  in 
the  morning  papers — a  chorus  of  journal- 
istic acclamation  gone  mad,  a  frenzied 
eulogy  in  every  key — but  nothing  was 
good  enough  for  them!  Brand-new 
words  were  wanted — another  language! 

Then  they  wanted  a  long  walk,  and 
could  think  of  nowhere  to  go  in  all 
Paris— that  immense  Paris  where  they 
had  promised  themselves  to  see  so  much 


*  Begun  in  January  number,  1894. 


262 


HARPER'S    NEW    MONTHLY    MAGAZINE. 


that  the  week  they  were  to  spend  there 
had  seemed  too  short! 

Looking  in  a  paper,  they  saw  it  an- 
nounced that  the  band  of  the  Imperial 
Guides  would  play  that  afternoon  in  the 
Pre  Catelan,  Bois  de  Boulogne,  and 
thought  they  might  as  well  walk  there 
as  anywhere  else,  and  walk  back  again 
in  time  to  dine  with  the  Passefils — a 
prandial  function  which  did  not  promise 
to  be  very  amusing,  but  still  it  was  some- 
thing to  kill  the  evening  with,  since  they 
couldn't  go  and  hear  Trilby  again. 

Outside  the  Pre  Catelan  they  found  a 
crowd  of  cabs  and  carriages,  saddle- 
horses  and  grooms.  One  might  have 
thought  one's  self  in  the  height  of  the 
Paris  season.  They  went  in,  and  strolled 
about  here  and  there,  and  listened  to  the 
band,  which  was  famous  (it  has  performed 
in  London  at  the  Crystal  Palace),  and 
they  looked  about  and  studied  life,  or 
tried  to. 

Suddenly  they  saw,  sitting  with  three 
ladies  (one  of  whom,  the  eldest,  was  in 
black),  a  very  smart  young  officer,  a 
guide,  all  red  and  green  and  gold,  and 
recognized  their  old  friend  Zouzou. 
They  bowed,  and  lie  knew  them  at  once, 
and  jumped  up  and  came  to  them  and 
greeted  them  warmly,  especially  his  old 
friend  Taffy,  whom  he  took  to  his  mother 
— the  lady  in  black — and  introduced  to 
the  other  ladies,  the  younger  of  whom 
was  so  lamentably,  so  pathetically  plain 
that  it  would  be  brutal  to  attempt  the 
cheap  and  easy  task  of  describing  her. 
It  was  Miss  Lavinia  Hunks,  the  famous 
American  millionairess,  and  her  mother. 
Then  the  good  Zouzou  came  back  and 
talked  to  the  Laird  and  Little  Billee. 

Zouzou,  in  some  subtle  and  indescriba- 
ble way,  had  become  very  ducal  indeed. 

He  looked  extremely  distinguished,  for 
one  thing,  in  his  beautiful  guide's  uni- 
form, and  was  most  gracefully  and  win- 
ningly  polite.  He  inquired  warmly  after 
Mrs.  and  Miss  Bagot,  and  begged  Little  Bil- 
lee would  recall  him  to  their  amiable  re- 
membrance when  he  saw  them  again. 
He  expressed  most  sympathetically  his 
delight  to  see  Little  Billee  looking  so 
strong  and  so  well  (Little  Billee  looked 
like  a  pallid  little  washed-out  ghost,  after 
his  white  night). 

They  talked  of  Dodor.  He  said  how 
attached  he  was  to  Dodor,  and  always 
should  be  ;  but  Dodor,  it  seemed,  had 
made   a  great    mistake    in    leaving    the 


army  and  going  into  a  retail  business 
{petit  commerce).  He  had  done  for  him- 
self— degringole !  He  should  have  stuck 
to  the  dragons — with  a  little  patience  and 
good  conduct  he  would  have  "won  his 
epaulet" — and  then  one  might  have  ar- 
ranged for  him  a  good  little  marriage — un 
parti  convenable— for  he  was  ' '  tres  joli 
garcon,  Dodor!  bonne  tournure — et  tres 
gentiment  ne  !  C'est  tres  ancien,  les 
Rigolot — dans  lePoitou,  je  crois — Lafarce, 
et  tout  9a;  tout  a  fait  bien!" 

It  was  difficult  to  realize  that  this  pol- 
ished and  discreet  and  somewhat  patron- 
izing young  man  of  the  world  was  the 
jolly  dog  who  had  gone  after  Little  Bil- 
lee's  hat  on  all  fours  in  the  Rue  Vieille 
des  Mauvais  Ladres  and  brought  it  back 
in  his  mouth— the  Caryhatide! 

Little  Billee  little  knew  that  Monsieur 
le  Due  de  la  Rochemartel-Boissegur  had 
quite  recently  delighted  a  very  small  and 
select  and  most  august  imperial  supper 
party  at  Compiegne  with  this  very  story, 
not  blinking  a  single  detail  of  his  own 
share  in  it — and  had  given  a  most  touch- 
ing and  sympathetic  description  of  "  le 
joli  petit  peintre  anglais  qui  s'appelait 
Litrebili,  et  ne  pouvait  pas  se  tenir  sur  ses 
jambes— et  qui  pleurait  d'amour  fraternel 
dans  les  bras  de  mon  copain  Dodor!" 

"Ah  !  Monsieur  Gontran,  ce  que  je 
donnerais  pour  avoir  vu  ga!"  had  said  the 
greatest  lady  in  France;  "un  de  mes 
zouaves— a  quatre  pattes— dans  la  rue — 
un  chapeau  dans  la  bouche— oh— c'est  im- 
payable !" 

Zouzou  kept  these  blackguard  bohemian 
reminiscences  for  the  imperial  circle  alone 
— to  which  it  was  suspected  that  he  was 
secretly  rallying  himself.  Amongst  all 
outsiders— especially  within  the  narrow 
precincts  of  the  cream  of  the  noble  Fau- 
bourg (which  remained  aloof  from  the 
Tuileries) — he  was  a  very  proper  and  gen- 
tlemanlike person  indeed,  as  his  brother 
had  been — and,  in  his  mother's  fond  be- 
lief, "tres  bien  pensant,  tres  bien  vu,  a 
Frohsdorf  et  a  Rome." 

On  lid  aurctit  donne  le  bon  Dieu  sans 
confession — as  Madame  Vinard  had  said 
of  Little  Billee — they  would  have  shriven 
him  at  sight,  and  admitted  him  to  the 
holy  communion  on  trust! 

He  did  not  present  Little  Billee  and 
the  Laird  to  his  mother,  nor  to  Mrs.  and 
Miss  Hunks  ;  that  honor  was  reserved 
for  "the  man  of  blood";  nor  did  he 
ask    where   they   were   staying,  nor   in- 


TEILBY. 


263 


vite  them  to  call  on  him.  But 
in  parting  he  expressed  the 
immense  pleasure  it  had  given 
him  to  meet  them  again,  and 
the  hope  he  had  of  some  day 
shaking  their  hands  in  Lon- 
don. 

As  the  friends  walked  back 
to  Paris  together,  it  transpired 
that  "  the  man  of  blood  "  had 
been  invited  by  Madame 
Duchesse  Mere  (Maman  Du^ 
chesse,  as  Zouzou  called  her) 
to  dine  with  her,  and  meet  the 
Hunkses  at  a  furnished  apart- 
ment she  had  taken  in  the 
Place  Vendome ;  for  they  had 
let  (to  the  Hunkses)  the  Hotel 
de  la  Rochemartel  in  the  Rue 
de  Lille;  they  had  also  been 
obliged  to  let  their  place  in  the 
country,  le  chateau  de  Boisse- 
gur  (to  Monsieur  Despoires,  or 
"des  Poires,"  as  he  chose  to 
spell  himself  on  his  visiting- 
cards — the  famous  soap-man- 
ufacturer— "  Un  tres  brave 
homme,  a  ce  qu'on  dit!"  and 
whose  only  son,  by-the-way, 
soon  after  married  Mademoi- 
selle Jeanne- Adelaide  d'Amau- 
ry-Brissac  de  Roncesvaulx  de 
Boissegur  de  la  Rochemartel). 

41 II  ne  fait  pas   gras  chez 
nous   a   present — je   vous   as- 
sure !"  Madame  Duchesse  Mere 
had  pathetically  said  to  Taffy — but  had 
given    him    to    understand    that    things 
would  be  better  for  her  son,  in  the  event 
of  his  marriage  with  Miss  Hunks. 

"  Good  heavens!"  said  Little  Billee,  on 
hearing  this:  "  that  grotesque  little  bogy 
in  blue?  Why,  she's  deformed  —  she 
squints — she's  a  dwarf,  and  looks  like  an 
idiot!  Millions  or  no  millions,  the  man 
who  marries  her  is  a  felon !  As  long  as 
there  are  stones  to  break  and  a  road  to 
break  them  on,  the  able-bodied  man  who 
marries  a  woman  like  that  for  anything 
but  pity  and  kindness — and  even  then — 
dishonors  himself,  insults  his  ancestry, 
and  inflicts  on  his  descendants  a  wrong 
that  nothing  will  ever  redeem — he  nips 
them  in  the  bud — he  blasts  them  forever! 
He  ought  to  be  cut  by  his  fellow-men — 
sent  to  Coventry — to  jail— to  penal  servi- 
tude for  life!  He  ought  to  have  a  sep- 
arate hell  to  himself  when  he  dies — he 
ought  to — " 


MAMAN   DUCHESSE. 


"Shut  up,  you  little  blaspheming  ruf- 
fian !"  said  the  Laird.  "  Where  do  you  ex- 
pect to  go  to,  yourself,  with  such  fright- 
ful sentiments?  And  what  would  become 
of  your  beautiful  old  twelfth  -  century 
dukedoms,  with  a  hundred  yards  of  back- 
frontage  opposite  the  Louvre,  on  a  beau- 
tiful historic  river,  and  a  dozen  beautiful 
historic  names,  and  no  money — if  you  had 
your  way?"  and  the  Laird  wunk  his  his- 
toric wink. 

"Twelfth-century  dukedoms  be  d — d!" 
said  Taffy,  au  grand  serieux,  as  usual. 
"Little  Billee's  quite  right,  and  Zouzou 
makes  me  sick!  Besides,  what  does  she 
marry  him  for — not  for  his  beauty  either, 
I  guess  !  She's  his  fellow-criminal,  his 
deliberate  accomplice,  particeps  delicti, 
accessory  before  the  act  and  after!  She 
has  no  right  to  marry  at  all!  tar  and 
feathers  and  a  rail  for  both  of  them — and 
for  Maman  Duchesse  too — and  I  suppose 
that's  why   I  refused  her   invitation   to 


264 


HARPER'S    NEW    MONTHLY    MAGAZINE. 


dinner!  and  now  let's  go  and  dine  with 
Dodor — . . .  .anyhow  Dodor's  young  wo- 
man doesn't  marry  him  for  a  dukedom — or 
even  his  '  de  ' — mais  bien  pour  ses  beaux 
yeux!  and  if  the  Rigolots  of  the  future 
turn  out  less  nice  to  look  at  than  their 
sire,  and  not  quite  so  amusing,  they  will 
probably  be  a  great  improvement  on  him 
in  many  other  ways.  There's  room 
enough — and  to  spare !" 

'"Ear!  'ear!"  said  Little  Billee  (who 
always  grew  flippant  when  Taffy  got  on 
his  high  horse).  "  Your  'ealth  and  song, 
sir— them's  my  sentiments  to  a  T !  What 
shall  we  'ave  the  pleasure  of  drinkin',  after 
that  wery  nice  'armony?" 

After  which  they  walked  on  in  silence, 
each,  no  doubt,  musing  on  the  general 
contrariness  of  things,  and  imagining 
what  splendid  little  Wynnes,  or  Bagots, 
or  McAlisters  might  have  been  ushered 
into  a  decadent  world  for  its  regenera- 
tion if  fate  had  so  willed  it  that  a  certain 
magnificent  grisette,  etc.,  etc., etc., etc. . . . 

Mrs.  and  Miss  Hunks  passed  them  as 
they  walked  along,  in  a  beautiful  blue 
barouche  with  C  springs— un  "huit-res- 
sorts";  Maman  Duchesse  passed  them  in 
a  hired  fly;  Zouzou  passed  them  on  horse- 
back ;  ' '  tout  Paris  "  passed  them ;  but  they 
were  none  the  wiser,  and  agreed  that  the 
show  was  not  a  patch  on  that  in  Hyde 
Park  during  the  London  season. 

When  they  reached  the  Place  de  la 
Concorde  it  was  that  lovely  hour  of  a 
line  autumn  day  in  beautiful  bright  cities 
when  all  the  lamps  are  lit  in  the  shops 
and  streets  and  under  the  trees,  and  it  is 
still  daylight  —  a  quickly  fleeting  joy; 
and  as  a  special  treat  on  this  particular 
occasion,  the  sun  set  and  up  rose  the  yel- 
low moon  over  eastern  Paris,  and  floated 
above  the  chimney-pots  of  the  Tuileries. 

They  stopped  to  gaze  at  the  homeward 
procession  of  cabs  and  carriages,  as  they 
used  to  do  in  the  old  times.  Tout  Paris 
was  still  passing;  tout  Paris'  is  very  long. 

They  stood  among  a  little  crowd  of 
sight-seers  like  themselves,  Little  Billee 
right  in  front — in  the  road. 

Presently  a  magnificent  open  carriage 
came  by — more  magnificent  than  even  the 
Hunkses',  with  liveries  and  harness  quite 
vulgarly  resplendent — almost  Napoleonic. 

Lolling  back  in  it  lay  Monsieur  et 
Madame  Svengali — he  with  his  broad- 
brimmed  felt  sombrero  over  his  long 
black  curls,  wrapped  in  costly  furs,  smok- 
ing his  big  cigar  of  the  Havana. 


By  his  side  la  Svengali— also  in  sables 
— with  a  large  black  velvet  hat  on,  her 
light  brown  hair  done  up  in  a  huge  knot 
on  the  nape  of  her  neck.  She  was  rouged 
and  pearl-powdered,  and  her  eyes  were 
blackened  beneath,  and  thus  made  to  look 
twice  their  size;  but  in  spite  of  all  such 
disfigurements  she  was  a  most  splendid 
vision,  and  caused  quite  a  little  sensation 
in  the  crowd  as  she  came  slowly  by. 

Little  Billee's  heart  was  in  his  mouth. 
He  caught  Svengali's  eye,  and  saw  him 
speak  to  her.  She  turned  her  head  and 
looked  at  him  standing  there — they  both 
did.  Little  Billee  bowed.  She  stared  at 
him  with  a  cold  stare  of  disdain,  and  cut 
him  dead— so  did  Svengali.  And  as  they 
passed  he  heard  them  both  snigger — she 
with  a  little  high-pitched  flippant  snigger 
worthy  of  a  London  barmaid. 

Little  Billee  was  utterly  crushed,  and 
everything  seemed  turning  round. 

The  Laird  and  Taffy  had  seen  it  all 
without  losing  a  detail.  The  Svengalis 
had  not  even  looked  their  way.  The 
Laird  said : 

"  It's  not  Trilby — I  swear!  She  could 
never  have  done  that — it's  not  in  her! 
and  it's  another  face  altogether — I'm  sure 
of  it!" 

Taffy  was  also  staggered  and  in  doubt. 
They  caught  hold  of  Little  Billee,  each  by 
an  arm,  and  walked  him  off  to  the  boule- 
vards. He  was  quite  demoralized,  and 
wanted  not  to  dine  at  the  Passefils.  He 
wanted  to  go  straight  home  at  once.  He 
longed  for  his  mother  as  he  used  to  long 
for  her  when  he  was  in  trouble  as  a 
small  boy  and  she  was  away  from  home 
— longed  for  her  desperately— to  hug  her 
and  hold  her  and  fondle  her,  and  be  fon- 
dled, for  his  own  sake  and  hers;  all  his 
old  love  for  her  had  come  back  in  full — 
with  what  arrears!  all  his  old  love  for 
his  sister,  for  his  old  home. 

When  they  went  back  to  the  hotel  to 
dress  (for  Dodor  had  begged  them  to  put 
on  their  best  evening  war-paint,  so  as  to 
impress  his  future  mother-in-law),  Little 
Billee  became  fractious  and  intractable. 
And  it  was  only  on  Taffy's  promising 
that  he  would  go  all  the  way  to  Devon- 
shire with  him  on  the  morrow,  and  stay 
with  him  there,  that  he  could  be  got  to 
dress  and  dine. 

The  huge  Taffy  lived  entirely  by  his 
affections,  and  he  hadn't  many  to  live  by 
— the  Laird,  Trilby,  and  Little  Billee. 

Trilby  was  unattainable,  the  Laird  was 


TRILBY. 


265 


quite  strong  and  independent  enough  to 
get  on  by  himself,  and  Taffy  had  concen- 
trated all  his  faculties  of  protection  and 
affection  on  Little  Billee,  and  was  equal 


suffering  patience,  a  real  humility,  a  ro- 
bustness of  judgment,  a  sincerity  and  all- 
roundness,  a  completeness  of  sympathy, 
that  made  him  very  good  to  trust  and 
safe  to  lean  upon.  Then  his  powerful 
impressive  aspect,  his  great  stature,  the 
gladiatorlike  poise  of  his  small  round 
head  on  his  big  neck  and  shoulders,  his 
huge  deltoids  and  deep  chest  and  slen- 


THE    CUT    DIRECT. 


to  any  burden  or  responsibility  this  in- 
stinctive fathering  might  involve. 

In  the  first  place,  Little  Billee  had  al- 
ways been  able  to  do  quite  easily,  and 
better  than  any  one  else  in  the  world, 
the  very  things  Taffy  most  longed  to  do 
himself  and  couldn't,  and  this  inspired 
the  good  Taffy  with  a  chronic  reverence 
and  wonder  he  could  not  have  expressed 
in  words. 

Then  Little  Billee  was  physically  small 
and  weak,  and  incapable  of  self-control. 
Then  he  was  generous,  amiable,  affection- 
ate, transparent  as  crystal,  without  an 
atom  of  either  egotism  or  conceit ;  and  had 
a  gift  of  amusing  you  and  interesting  you 
by  his  talk  (and  its  complete  sincerity) 
that  never  palled  ;  and  even  his  silence 
was  charming— one  felt  so  sure  of  him — 
so  there  was  hardly  any  sacrifice,  little 
or  big,  that  big  Taffy  was  not  ready  and 
glad  to  make  for  Little  Billee.  On  the 
other  hand,  there  lay  deep  down  under 
Taffy's  surface  irascibility  and  earnest- 
ness about  trifles  (and  beneath  his  harm- 
less vanity  of   the   strong  man)  a  long- 


der  loins,  his  clean-cut  ankles  and  wrists, 
all  the  long  and  bold  and  highly  finished 
athletic  shapes  of  him,  that  easy  grace  of 
strength  that  made  all  his  movements  a 
pleasure  to  watch,  and  any  garment  look 
well  when  he  wore  it  —  all  this  was  a 
perpetual  feast  to  the  quick,  prehensile, 
aesthetic  eye.  And  then  he  had  such  a 
solemn,  earnest,  lovable  way  of  bending 
pokers  round  his  neck,  and  breaking 
them  on  his  arm,  and  jumping  his  own 
height  (or  near  it),  and  lifting  up  arm- 
chairs by  one  leg  with  one  hand,  and 
what  not  else! 

So  that  there  was  hardly  any  sacrifice, 
little  or  big,  that  Little  Billee  would  not 
accept  from  big  Taffy  as  a  mere  matter  of 
course — a  fitting  and  proper  tribute  ren- 
dered by  bodily  strength  to  genius. 

Par  nobile  fratrum — well  met  and  well 
mated  for  fast  and  long-enduring  friend- 
ship. 

The  family  banquet  at  Monsieur  Passe- 
fil's  would  have  been  dull  but  for  the  irre- 
pressible Dodor,  and  still    more  for  the 


266 


HARPER'S  NEW   MONTHLY   MAGAZINE. 


Laird  of  Cockpen,  who  rose  to  the  occa- 
sion, and  surpassed  himself  in  geniality, 
drollery,  and  eccentricity  of  French  gram- 
mar and  accent.  M.  Passefil  was  also  a 
droll  in  his  way,  and  had  the  quickly 
familiar  jocose  facetiousness  that  seems 
to  belong  to  the  successful  middle-aged 
bourgeois  all  over  the  world,  when  he's 
not  pompous  instead  (he  can  even  be  both 
sometimes). 

Madame  Passefil  was  not  jocose.  She 
was  much  impressed  by  the  aristocratic 
splendor  of  Taffy,  the  romantic  melan- 
choly and  refinement  of  Little  Billee,  and 
their  quiet  and  dignified  politeness.  She 
always  spoke  of  Dodor  as  Monsieur  de 
Lafarce,  though  the  rest  of  the  family 
(and  one  or  two  friends  who  had  been  in- 
vited) always  called  him  Monsieur  Theo- 
dore, and  he  was  officially  known  as  Mon- 
sieur Rigolot. 

Whenever  Madame  Passefil  addressed 
him  or  spoke  of  him  in  this  aristocratic 
manner  (which  happened  very  often), 
Dodor  would  wink  at  his  friends,  with 
his  tongue  in  his  cheek.  It  seemed  to 
amuse  him  beyond  measure. 

Mademoiselle  Ernestine  was  evidently 
too  much   in   love  to  say  anything,  and 


A  J I    >  a 


seldom  took  her  eyes  off  Monsieur  Theo- 
dore, whom  she  had  never  seen  in  even- 
ing dress  before.  It  must  be  owned  that 
he  looked  very  nice  —  more  ducal  than 
even  Zouzou — and  to  be  Madame  de  La- 
farce  en  perspective,  and  the  future  own- 
er of  such  a  brilliant  husband  as  Dodor, 
was  enough  to  turn  a  stronger  little  bour- 
geois head  than  Mile.  Ernestine's. 

She  was  not  beautiful,  but  healthy,  well 
grown,  well  brought  up,  and  presumably 
of  a  sweet,  kind,  and  amiable  disposition — 
an  ingenue  fresh  from  her  convent — in- 
nocent as  a  child,  no  doubt,  and  it  was 
felt  that  Dodor  had  done  better  for  him- 
self than  Monsieur  le  Due.  Little  Dodors 
need  have  no  fear. 

After  dinner,  the  ladies  and  gentlemen 
left  the  dining-room  together,  and  sat  in 
a  pretty  salon  overlooking  the  boulevard, 
where  cigarettes  were  allowed ;  and  there 
was  music.  Mile.  Ernestine  laboriously 
played  "  Les  Cloches  du  Monastere,"  by 
M.  Lefebure-Wely,  if  I'm  not  mistaken. 
It's  the  most  bourgeois  piece  of  music  I 
know. 

Then  Dodor,  with  his  sweet  high  voice, 
so  strangely  pathetic  and  true,  sang 
goody-goody  little  French  songs  of  inno- 
cence (of  which  he  seemed  to  have  an 
endless  repertoire)  to  his  future  wrife's 
conscientious  accompaniment — to  the 
immense  delight,  also,  of  all  his  future 
family,  wTho  were  almost  in  tears — and 
to  the  great  amusement  of  the  Laird, 
at  whom  he  winked  in  the  most  pa- 
thetic parts,  putting  his  forefinger  to 


PETIT  ENFANT,  j'AIMAIS  D'UN   AMOUR  TENDKK 
MA    MERE   ET  DIBIT— SAINTE8  AFFECTIONS! 

PUIS  MON  AMOUR  AUX  FLRUR8  8E   FIT  ENTENDRE. 
PUIS  AUX  OI8EAUX,  ET  PUIS  AUX  PAPILI.ON8  !" 


TEILBY. 


267 


the  side  of  his  nose,  like  Noah  Claypole 
in  Oliver  Twist. 

The  wonder  of  the  hour,  la  Svengali, 
was  discussed,  of  course;  it  was  unavoid- 
able. But  our  friends  did  not  think  it 
necessary  to  reveal  that  she  was  "la 
grande  Trilby."  That  would  soon  tran- 
spire by  itself. 

And,  indeed,  before  the  month  was  a 
week  older  the  papers  were  full  of  nothing 
else. 

Madame  Svengali — "la  grande  Trilby  " 
— was  the  only  daughter  of  the  honorable 
and  reverend  Sir  Lord  O'Ferrall. 

She  had  run  away  from  the  primeval 
forests  and  lonely  marshes  of  le  Dublin, 
to  lead  a  free  and  easy  life  among  the 
artists  of  the  quartier  latin  of  Paris — une 
vie  de  boheme  ! 

She  was  the  Venus  Anadyomene  from 
top  to  toe. 

She  was  blanche  comme  neige,  avec  un 
volcan  daws  le  coeur. 

Casts  of  her  alabaster  feet  could  be  had 
at  Brucciani's,  in  the  Eue  de  la  Souriciere 
St.  Denis.     (He  made  a  fortune.) 

Monsieur  Ingres  had  painted  her  left 
foot  on  the  wall  of  a  studio  in  the  Place  St. - 
Anatole  des  Arts;  and  an  eccentric  Scotch 
milord  (le  Comte  de  Pencock)  had  bought 
the  house  containing  the  flat  containing 
the  studio  containing  the  wall  on  which 
it  was  painted,  had  had  the  house  pulled 
down,  and  the  wall  framed  and  glazed 
and  sent  to  his  castle  of  Edimbourg. 

(This,  unfortunately,  was  in  excess  of  the 
truth.  It  was  found  impossible  to  execute 
the  Laird's  wish,  on  account  of  the  mate- 
rial the  wall  was  made  of.  So  the  Lord 
Count  of  Pencock  —  such  was  Madame 
Vinard's  version  of  Sandy's  nickname — 
had  to  forego  his  purchase.) 

Next  morning  our  friends  wTere  in  rea- 
diness to  leave  Paris;  even  the  Laird  had 
had  enough  of  it,  and  longed  to  get  back 
to  his  work  again — a  "Hari-kari  in  Yoko- 
hama." (He  had  never  been  to  Japan; 
but  no  more  had  any  one  else  in  those 
early  days.) 

They  had  just  finished  breakfast,  and 
were  sitting  in  the  court-yard  of  the  hotel, 
which  was  crowded,  as  usual. 

Little  Billee  went  into  the  hotel  post- 
office  to  despatch  a  note  to  his  mother. 
Sitting  sideways  there  at  a  small  table 
and  reading  letters  was  Svengali — of  all 
people  in  the  world.  But  for  these  two 
and  a  couple  of  clerks  the  room  was 
empty. 


Svengali  looked  up  ;  they  were  quite 
close  together. 

Little  Billee,  in  his  nervousness,  began 
to  shake,  and  half  put  out  his  hand,  and 
drew  it  back  again,  seeing  the  look  of  hate 
on  Svengali's  face. 

Svengali  jumped  up,  put  his  letters  to- 
gether, and  passing  by  Little  Billee  on  his 
way  to  the  door,  called  him  "  verfluchter 
Schweinhund,"  and  deliberately  spat  in 
his  face. 

Little  Billee  was  paralyzed  for  a  second 
or  two;  then  he  ran  after  Svengali,  and 
caught  him  just  at  the  top  of  the  marble 
stairs,  and  kicked  him,  and  knocked  off 
his  hat,  and  made  him  drop  all  his  letters. 
Svengali  turned  round  and  struck  him 
over  the  mouth  and  made  it  bleed,  and 
Little  Billee  hit  out  like  a  fury,  but  with 
no  effect:  he  couldn't  reach  high  enough, 
for  Svengali  was  well  over  six  feet. 

There  was  a  crowd  round  them  in  a 
minute,  including  the  beautiful  old  man 
in  the  court  suit  and  gold  chain,  who 
called  out: 

"Vite!  vite!  un  commissaire  de  po- 
lice!" a  cry  that  was  echoed  all  over  the 
place. 

Taffy  saw  the  row,  and  shouted, ' '  Bravo, 
little  un  !"  and  jumping  up  from  his  table, 
jostled  his  way  through  the  crowd;  and 
Little  Billee,  bleeding  and  gasping  and 
perspiring  and  stammering,  said: 

"  He  spat  in  my  face,  Taffy — d him ! 

I'd  never  even  spoken  to  him — not  a  word, 
I  swear!" 

Svengali  had  not  reckoned  on  Taffy's 
being  there;  he  recognized  him  at  once, 
and  turned  white. 

Taffy,  who  had  dog-skin  gloves  on,  put 
out  his  right  hand,  and  deftly  seized  Sven- 
gali's nose  between  his  fore  and  middle 
fingers  and  nearly  pulled  it  off,  and 
swung  his  head  two  or  three  times  back- 
wards and  forwards  by  it,  and  then  from 
side  to  side,  Svengali  holding  on  to  his 
wrist;  and  then,  letting  him  go,  gave  him 
a  sounding  open-handed  smack  on  his 
right  cheek — and  a  smack  on  the  face 
from  Taffy  (even  in  play)  was  no  joke, 
I'm  told;  it  made  one  smell  brimstone, 
and  see  and  hear  things  that  didn't  exist. 

Svengali  gasped  worse  than  Little  Bil- 
lee, and  couldn't  speak  for  a  while.  Then 
he  said, 

"Lache — grand  lache!  che  fous  enfer- 
rai  mes  temoins!" 

"At  your  orders!"  said  Taffy,  in  beau- 
tiful French,  and  drew  out  his  card-case, 


"VITE!    VITE!    UN    COMMISSAIRE    DE    POLICE!' 


and  gave  him  his  card  in  quite  the  ortho- 
dox French  manner,  adding:  "I  shall 
be  here  till  to-morrow  at  twelve — but 
that  is  my  London  address,  in  case  I 
don't  hear  from  you  before  I  leave.  I'm 
sorry,  but  you  really  mustn't  spit,  you 
know — it's  not  done.  I  will  come  to  you 
whenever  you  send  for  me — even  if  I 
have  to  come  from  the  end  of  the  world." 

"  Tres  bien !  tres  bien  !"  said  a  military- 
looking  old  gentleman  close  by,  and  gave 
Taffy  his  card,  in  case  he  might  be  of  any 
service. 

When  the  commissaire  de  police  ar- 
rived, all  was  over.  Svengali  had  gone 
away  in  a  cab,  and  Taffy  put  himself  at 
the  disposition  of  the  commissaire. 

They  went  into  the  post-office  and  dis- 
cussed it  all  with  the  old  military  gentle- 
man, and  the  majordome  in  velvet,  and 
the  two  clerks  who  had  seen  the  original 
insult.  And  all  that  was  required  of 
Taffy  and  his  friends  for  the  present  was 
"their  names,  prenames,  titles,  qualities, 
age,  address,  nationality,  occupation," etc. 

"  C'est  une  affaire  qui  s'arrangera  au- 
trement,  et  autre  part!"  had  said  the  mil- 
itary gentleman  —  monsieur  le  general 
Comte  de  la  Tour-aux-Loups. 

So  it  blew  over  quite  simply;  and  all 
that  day  a  fierce  unholy  joy  burned  in 
Taffy's  choleric  blue  eye. 

Not,  indeed,  that  he  had.  any  wish  to 


injure  Trilby's  husband,  or  meant  to  do 
him  any  grievous  bodily  harm,  whatever 
happened.  But  he  was  glad  to  have 
given  Svengali  a  lesson  in  manners. 

That  Svengali  should  injure  him  never 
entered  into  his  calculations  for  a  mo- 
ment. Besides,  he  didn't  believe  Sven- 
gali would  show  fight ;  and  in  this  he 
was  not  mistaken. 

But  he  had,  for  hours,  the  feel  of  that 
long  thick  shapely  nose  being  kneaded 
between  his  gloved  knuckles,  and  a  pleas- 
ing sense  of  the  effectiveness  of  the  tweak 
he  had  given  it.  So  he  went  about  chew- 
ing the  cud  of  that  heavenly  remembrance 
all  day,  till  reflection  brought  remorse, 
and  he  felt  sorry;  for  he  was  really  the 
mildest-mannered  man  that  ever  broke  a 
head! 

Only  the  sight  of  Little  Billee's  blood 
(which  had  been  made  to  flow  by  such 
an  unequal  antagonist)  had  roused  the 
old  Adam. 

No  message  came  from  Svengali  to  ask 
for  the  names  and  addresses  of  Taffy's  sec- 
onds; so  Dodor  and  Zouzou  (not  to  men- 
tion Mister  the  general  Count  of  the  Too- 
raloorals,  as  the  Laird  called  him)  were 
left  undisturbed;  and  our  three  musket- 
eers went  back  to  London  clean  of  blood, 
whole  of  limb,  and  heartily  sick  of  Paris. 

Little  Billee  staid  with  his  mother  and 


TRILBY. 


269 


sister  in  Devonshire  till  Christmas,  Taffy 
staying  at  the  village  inn. 

It  was  Taffy  who  told  Mrs.  Bagot  about 
la  Svengali's  all  but  certain  identity  with 
Trilby,  after  Little  Billee  had  gone  to 
bed,  tired  and  worn  out,  the  night  of  their 
arrival. 

"Good  heavens!"  said  poor  Mrs.  Bagot. 
"Why,  that's  the  new  singing  woman 
who's  coming  over  here!  There's  an  ar- 
ticle about  her  in  to  day's  Times.  It  says 
she's  a  wonder,  and  that  there's  no  one 
like  her!  Surely  that  can't  be  the  Miss 
O'Ferrall  I  saw  in  Paris !" 

"It  seems  impossible — but  I'm  almost 
certain  it  is — and  Willy  has  no  doubts  in 
the  matter.  On  the  other  hand,  McAlister 
declares  it  isn't." 

"Oh,  what  trouble!  So  that's  why 
poor  Willy  looks  so  ill  and  miserable! 
It's  all  come  back  again.  Could  she  sing 
at  all  then,  when  you  knew  her  in  Paris?" 

"Not  a  note— her  attempts  at  singing 
were  quite  grotesque." 

"  Is  she  still  very  beautiful?" 

"  Oh  yes;  there's  no  doubt  about  that; 
more  than  ever!" 

"  And  her  singing — is  that  so  very  won- 
derful? I  remember  that  she  had  a  beau- 
tiful voice  in  speaking." 

"Wonderful?  Ah,  yes;  I  never  heard 
or  dreamt  the  like  of  it.  Grisi,  Alboni, 
Patti — not  one  of  them  to  be  mentioned 
in  the  same  breath!" 

"Good  heavens!  Why,  she  must  be 
simply  irresistible!  I  wonder  you're  not 
in  love  with  her  yourself.  How  dreadful 
these  sirens  are,  wrecking  the  peace  of 
families!" 

"  You  mustn't  forget  that  she  gave  way 
at  once  at  a  word  from  you,  Mrs.  Bagot; 
and  she  was  very  fond  of  Willy.  She 
wasn't  a  siren  then." 

"Oh  yes — oh  yes!  that's  true — she  be- 
haved very  well — she  did  her  duty — I 
can't  deny  that!  You  must  try  and  for- 
give me,  Mr.  Wynne — although  I  can't  for- 
give her! — that  dreadful  illness  of  poor 
Willy's — that  bitter  time  in  Paris . .  . .  " 

And  Mrs.  Bagot  began  to  cry,  and  Taffy 
forgave.  "Oh,  Mr.  Wynne — let  us  still 
hope  that  there's  some  mistake — that  it's 
only  somebody  like  her  !  Why,  she's 
coming  to  sing  in  London  after  Christ- 
mas !  My  poor  boy's  infatuation  will  only 
increase.      What  shall  I  do?" 

"Well — she's  another  man's  wife,  you 
see.  So  Willy's  infatuation  is  bound  to 
burn  itself  out  as  soon  as  he  fully  recog- 

Vol.  LXXXIX.-No.  530.-3O 


nizes  that  important  fact.  Besides,  she 
cut  him  dead  in  the  Champs  Elysees — and 
her  husband  and  Willy  had  a  row  next 
day  at  the  hotel,  and  cuffed  and  kicked 
each  other — that's  rather  a  bar  to  any  fu- 
ture intimacy,  I  think." 

"  Oh,  Mr.  Wynne!  my  son  cuffing  and 
kicking  a  man  whose  wife  he's  in  love 
with !     Good  heavens !" 

"Oh,  it  was  all  right — the  man  had 
grossly  insulted  him — and  Willy  behaved 
like  a  brick,  and  got  the  best  of  it  in  the 
end,  and  nothing  came  of  it.    I  saw  it  all." 

"Oh,  Mr.  Wynne — and  you  didn't  in- 
terfere?" 

"Oh  yes,  I  interfered — everybody  in- 
terfered! It  was  all  right,  I  assure  you. 
No  bones  were  broken  on  either  side,  and 
there  was  no  nonsense  about  calling  out, 
or  swords  or  pistols,  and  all  that." 

"Thank  Heaven!" 

In  a  week  or  two  Little  Billee  grew 
more  like  himself  again,  and  painted  end- 
less studies  of  rocks  and  cliffs  and  sea — 
and  Taffy  painted  with  him,  and  was  very 
content.       The    vicar    and    Little    Billee 


I  SUPPOSE  YOU  DO  ALL  THIS  KIND  OF  THING 
FOR  MERE   AMUSEMENT,  MR.  WYNNE?" 


270 


HARPER'S    NEW    MONTHLY    MAGAZINE. 


patched  up  their  feud.  The  vicar  also 
took  an  immense  fancy  to  Taffy,  whose 
cousin,  Sir  Oscar  Wynne,  he  had  known 
at  college,  and  lost  no  opportunity  of  be- 
ing hospitable  and  civil  to  him.  And  his 
daughter  was  away  in  Algiers. 

•And  all  "the  nobility  and  gentry"  of 
the  neighborhood,  including  "the  poor 
dear  Marquis  "  (one  of  whose  sons  was  in 
Taffy's  old  regiment),  were  civil  and  hos- 
pitable also  to  the  two  painters — and  Taf- 
fy got  as  much  sport  as  he  wanted,  and 
became  immensely  popular.  And  they 
had,  on  the  whole,  a  very  good  time  till 
Christmas,  and  a  very  pleasant  Christ- 
mas, if  not  an  exuberantly  merry  one. 

After  Christmas  Little  Billee  insisted 
on  going  back  to  London — to  paint  a  pic- 
ture for  the  Royal  Academy;  and  Taffy 
went  with  him  ;  and  there  was  dulness 
in  the  house  of  Bagot — and  many  mis- 
givings in  the  maternal  heart  of  its  mis- 
tress. 

And  people  of  all  kinds,  high  and  low, 
from  the  family  at  the  Court  to  the  fish- 
ermen on  the  little  pier  and  their  wives 
and  children,  missed  the  two  genial  paint- 
ers, who  were  the  friends  of  everybody, 
and  made  such  beautiful  sketches  of  their 
beautiful  coast. 

La  Svengali  has  arrived  in  London. 
Her  name  is  in  every  mouth.  Her  pho- 
tograph is  in  the  shop  windows.     She  is 

to  sing  at  J 's  monster  concerts  next 

week.  She  was  to  have  sung  sooner,  but 
it  seems  some  hitch  has  occurred — a  quar- 
rel between  Monsieur  Svengali  and  his 
first  violin,  who  is  a  very  important  per- 
son. 

A  crowd  of  people  as  usual,  only  bigger, 
is  assembled  in  front  of  the  windows  of 
the  Stereoscopic  Company  in  Regent 
Street,  gazing  at  presentments  of  Madame 
Svengali  in  all  sizes  and  costumes.  She 
is  very  beautiful ;  there  is  no  doubt  of  that ; 
and  the  expression  of  her  face  is  sweet  and 
kind  and  sad,  and  of  such  a  distinction 
that  one  feels  an  imperial  crown  would 
become  her  even  better  than  her  modest 
little  coronet  of  golden  stars.  One  of  the 
photographs  represents  her  in  classical 
dress,  with  her  left  foot  on  a  little  stool, 
in  something  of  the  attitude  of  the  Venus 
of  Milo,  except  that  her  hands  are  clasped 
behind  her  back;  and  the  foot  is  bare  but 
for  a  Greek  sandal,  and  so  smooth  and 
delicate  and  charming, and  with  so  rhyth- 
mical a  set  and  curl  of  the  five  slender 


toes  (the  big  one  slightly  tip-tilted  and  well 
apart  from  its  longer  and  slighter  and 
more  aquiline  neighbor),  that  this  pre- 
sentment of  her  sells  quicker  than  all  the 
rest. 

And  a  little  man  who,  with  two  bigger 
men,  has  just  forced  his  way  in  front  says 
to  one  of  his  friends :  k '  Look,  Sandy,  look 
— the  foot!  Now  have  you  got  any 
doubts  ?" 

"Oh  yes— those  are  Trilby's  toes,  sure 
enough!"  says  Sandy.  And  they  all  go 
in  and  purchase  largely. 

As  far  as  I  have  been  able  to  discover, 
the  row  between  Svengali  and  his  first 
violin  had  occurred  at  a  rehearsal  in 
Drury  Lane  Theatre. 

Svengali,  it  seems,  had  never  been  quite 
the  same  since  the  15th  of  October  pre- 
vious, and  that  was  the  day  he  had  got 
his  face  slapped  and  his  nose  tweaked  by 
Taffy  in  Paris.  He  had  become  short- 
tempered  and  irritable,  especially  with  his 
wife  (if  she  was  his  wife).  Svengali,  it 
seems,  had  reasons  for  passionately  hating 
Little  Billee. 

He  had  not  seen  him  for  five  years — 
not  since  the  Christmas  festivity  in  the 
Place  St.-Anatole,  when  they  had  sparred 
together  after  supper,  and  Svengali's  nose 
had  got  in  the  way  on  this  occasion,  and 
had  been  made  to  bleed ;  but  that  was  not 
why  he  hated  Little  Billee. 

When  he  caught  sight  of  him  standing 
on  the  kerb  in  the  Place  de  la  Concorde 
and  watching  the  procession  of  "tout 
Paris,"  he  knew  him  directly,  and  all  his 
hate  flared  up;  he  cut  him  dead,  and  made 
his  wife  do  the  same. 

Next  morning  he  saw  him  again  in  the 
hotel  post-office,  looking  small  and  weak 
and  flurried,  and  apparently  alone;  and 
he  had  not  been  able  to  resist  the  tempta- 
tion of  spitting  in  his  face,  since  he  must 
not  throttle  him  to  death. 

The  minute  he  had  done  this  he  had 
regretted  the  folly  of  it.  Little  Billee  had 
run  after  him,  and  kicked  and  struck  him, 
and  he  had  returned  the  blow  and  drawn 
blood;  and  then,  suddenly  and  quite  un- 
expected! y,  had  come  upon  the  scene  that 
apparition  so  loathed  and  dreaded  of  old — 
the  pig-headed  Yorkshireman — the  huge 
British  philistine,  the  irresponsible  bull, 
the  junker,  the  ex -Crimean,  Front  -de- 
Boeuf,  who  had  always  reminded  him  of 
the  brutal  and  contemptuous  sword-clank- 
ing, spur-jingling  aristocrats  of  his  own 
countrv.     Callous  as  he  was  to  the  woes 


THE    FIRST   VIOLIN    LOSES    HIS   TEMPER. 


of  others,  the  self-indulgent  and  highly 
strung  musician  was  extra  sensitive  about 
himself  —  a  very  bundle  of  nerves — and 
•especially  sensitive  to  pain  and  rough 
usage,  and  by  no  means  physically  brave. 
The  stern,  choleric,  invincible  blue  eye  of 
the  hated  Northern  gentile  had  cowed 
him  at  once.  And  that  violent  tweaking 
of  his  nose,  that  heavy  open-handed  blow 
•on  his  face,  had  so  shaken  and  demoralized 
him  that  he  had  never  recovered  from  it. 

He  was  thinking  about  it  always — night 
and  day  —  and  constantly  dreaming  at 
night  that  he  was  being  tweaked  and 
slapped  over  again  by  a  colossal  night- 
mare Taffy,  and  waking  up  in  agonies  of 
terror,  rage,  and  shame.  All  healthy 
sleep  had  forsaken  him. 

Moreover,  he  was  much  older  than  he 
looked — nearly  fifty — and  far  from  sound. 
His  life  had  been  a  long  hard  struggle. 

He  had  for  his  wife,  slave,  and  pupil  a 
fierce,  jealous  kind  of  affection  that  was  a 
•source  of  endless  torment  to  him ;  for  in- 
delibly graven  in  her  heart,  which  he 
wished  to  occupy  alone,  was  the  never- 
fading  image  of  the  little  English  painter, 
and  of  this  she  made  no  secret. 

Gecko  no  longer  cared  for  the  master. 
All  Gecko's   doglike  devotion  was   con- 


centrated on  the  slave  and  pupil,  whom 
he  worshipped  with  a  fierce  but  pure  and 
unselfish  passion.  The  only  living  soul 
that  Svengali  could  trust  was  the  old  Jew- 
ess who  lived  with  them — his  relative — 
but  even  she  had  come  to  love  the  pupil 
as  much  as  the  master. 

On  the  occasion  of  this  rehearsal  at 
Drury  Lane  he  (Svengali)  was  conducting 
and  Madame  Svengali  was  singing.  He 
interrupted  her  several  times,  angrily  and 
most  unjustly,  and  told  her  she  was  sing- 
ing out  of  tune,  "like  a  verfluchter  tom- 
cat," which  was  quite  untrue.  She  was 
singing  beautifully,  "Home,  sweet  Home. " 

Finally  he  struck  her  two  or  three 
smart  blows  on  her  knuckles  with  his 
little  baton,  and  she  fell  on  her  knees, 
weeping  and  crying  out: 

"Oh !  oh  !  Svengali !  ne  me  battez  pas, 
mon  ami — je  fais  tout  ce  que  je  peux !" 

On  which  little  Gecko  had  suddenly 
jumped  up  and  struck  Svengali  on  the 
neck  near  the  collar-bone,  and  then  it  was 
seen  that  he  had  a  little  bloody  knife  in 
his  hand,  and  blood  flowed  from  Sven- 
gali's  neck,  and  at  the  sight  of  it  Svengali 
had  fainted;  and  Madame  Svengali  had 
taken  his  head  on  her  lap,  looking  dazed 
and  stupefied,  as  in  a  waking  dream. 


272 


HARPER'S    NEW    MONTHLY   MAGAZINE. 


HAST  THOU  FOUND  ME,  O  MINE  ENEMY?' 


Gecko  had  been  disarmed,  but  as  Sven- 
frali  recovered  from  his  faint  and  was 
laken  home,  the  police  had  not  been  sent 
for,  and  the  affair  was  hushed  up,  and  a 
public  scandal  avoided.      But  la  Svenga- 

li's  first  appearance,  to  Monsieur  J 's 

despair,  had  to  be  put  off  for  a  week.  For 
Svengali  would  not  allow  her  to  sing 
without  him;  nor,  indeed,  would  he  be 
parted  from  her  for  a  minute,  or  trust  her 
out  of  his  sight. 

The  wound  was  a  slight  one.  The 
doctor  who  attended  Svengali  described 
the  wife  as  being  quite  imbecile,  no  doubt 
from  grief  and  anxiety.  But  she  never 
left  her  husband's  bedside  for  a  moment, 
and  had  the  obedience  and  devotion  of  a 
dog. 

When  the  night  came  round  for  the 
postponed  debut,  Svengali  was  allowed  by 
the  doctor  to  go  to  the  theatre,  but  lie 
was  absolutely  forbidden  to  conduct.  His 
grief  and  anxiety  at  this  were  uncontrol- 
lable; he  raved  like  a  madman  ;  and  Mon- 
sieur J was  almost  as  bad. 

Monsieur  J had   been   conducting 

the  Svengali  band  at  rehearsals  during 
the  week,  in  the  absence  of  its  master — an 
easy  task.  It  had  been  so  thoroughly 
drilled  and  knew  its  business  so  well  that 
it  could  almost  conduct  itself,  and  it  had 
played  all  the  music  it  had  to  play  (much 
of  which  consisted  of  accompaniments  to 
la  Svengali's  songs)  many  times  before. 
The  repertoire  was  immense,  and  Svengali 
had  written  these  orchestral  scores  with 
great  care  and  felicity. 


On  the  famous  night  it  was  arranged 
that  Svengali  should  sit  in  a  box  alone 
exactly  opposite  his  wife's  place  on  the 
platform,  where  she  could  see  him  well, 
and  a  code  of  simple  signals  was  arranged 

between  him  and  M.  J and  the  band, 

so  that  virtually  he  might  conduct,  him- 
self, from  his  box  should  any  hesitation 
or  hitch  occur.  This  arrangement  was 
rehearsed  the  day  before  (a  Sunday)  and 
had  turned  out  quite  successfully,  and  la 
Svengali  had  sung  in  perfection  in  the 
empty  theatre. 

When  Monday  evening  arrived,  every- 
thing seemed  to  be  going  smoothly;  the 
house  was  soon  crammed  to  suffocation, 
all  but  the  middle  box  on  the  grand  tier. 
It  was  not  a  promenade  concert,  and  the 
pit  was  turned  into  guinea  stalls  (the 
promenade  concerts  were  to  begin  a  week 
later). 

Right  in  the  middle  of  these  stalls  sat 
the  Laird  and  Taffy  and  Little  Billee. 

The  band  came  in  by  degrees  and  tuned 
their  instruments. 

Eyes  were  constantly  being  turned  to 
the  empty  box,  and  people  wondered  what 
royal  personages  would  appear. 

Monsieur  J took   his   place    amid 

immense  applause,  and  bowed  in  his  in- 
imitable way,  looking  often  at  the  empty 
box. 

Then  he  tapped  and  waved  his  baton r 
and  the  band  played  its  Hungarian  dance 
music  with  immense  success;  when  this 
was  over  there  was  a  pause,  and  soon 
some  signs  of  impatience  from  the  gal- 
lery.    Monsieur  J had  disappeared. 

Taffy  stood  up,  his  back  to  the  orches- 
tra, looking  round. 

Some  one  came  into  the  empty  box,  and 
stood  for  a  moment  in  front,  gazing  at 
the  house.  A  tall  man,  deathly  pale, 
with  long  black  hair  and  a  beard. 

It  was  Svengali. 

He  caught  sight  of  Taffy  and  met  his 
eyes,  and  Taffy  said :  "  Good  God !  Look  L 
look!" 

Then  Little  Billee  and  the  Laird  got  up 
and  looked. 

And  Svengali  for  a  moment  glared  at 
them.  And  the  expression  of  his  face 
was  so  terrible  with  wonder,  rage,  and 
fear  that  they  were  quite  appalled— and 
then  he  sat  down,  still  glaring  at  Taffy, 
the  whites  of  his  eyes  showing  at  the  top, 
and  his  teeth  bared  in  a  spasmodic  grin  of 
hate. 

Then  thunders  of  applause  filled  the 


274 


HARPER'S   NEW    MONTHLY    MAGAZINE. 


house,  and  turning  round  and  seating 
themselves,  Taffy  and  Little  Billee   and 

the  Laird  saw  Trilby  being  led  by  J 

down  the  platform,  between  the  players, 
to  the  front,  her  face  smiling  rather  va- 
cantly, her  eyes  anxiously  intent  on  Sven- 
gali  in  his  box. 

She  made  her  bows  to  right  and  left 
just  as  she  had  done  in  Paris. 

The  band  struck  up  the  opening  bars 
of  "Ben  Bolt,"  with  which  she  was  an- 
nounced to  make  her  debut. 

She  still  stared— but  she  didn't  sing — 
and  they  played  the  little  symphony  three 
times. 

One  could   hear  Monsieur  J in  a 

hoarse  anxious  whisper  saying, 

"Mais  chantez  done,  madame  —  pour 
l'amour  de  Dieu,  commencez  done— com- 
mencez !" 

She  turned  round  with  an  extraordi- 
nary expression  of  face,  and  said, 

"Chanter?  pourquoi  done  voulez-vous 
que  je  chante,  moi?  chanter  quoi,  alors?" 

"  Mais  '  Ben  Bolt,'  parbleu — chantez!" 

"  Ah — 'Ben  Bolt!'  oui — je  connais  9a!" 

Then  the  band  began  again. 

And  she  tried,  but  failed  to  begin  her- 
self.    She  turned  round  and  said, 

"Comment  diable  voulez-vous  que  je 
chante  avec  tout  ce  train  qu'ils  font,  ces 
diables  de  musiciens!" 

"Mais,  mon  Dieu,  madame — qu'est-ce 
que  vous  avez  done?"  cried  Monsieur 
J . 

"  J'ai  que  j'aime  mieux  chanter  sans 
toute  cette  satanee  musique,  parbleu! 
J'aime  mieux  chanter  toute  seule!" 

"Sans  musique,  alors — mais  chantez — 
chantez !" 

The  band  was  stopped— the  house  was 
in  a  state  of  indescribable  wonder  and 
suspense. 

She  looked  all  round,  and  down  at  her- 
self, and  fingered  her  dress.  Then  she 
looked  up  to  the  chandelier  with  a  tender 
sentimental  smile  and  began: 

"Oh,  don't  you  remember  sweet  Alice,  Ben  Bolt? 

Sweet  Alice  with  hair  so  brown, 

Who  wept  with  delight  when  you   gave  her  a 
smile — " 

She  had  not  got  farther  than  this  when 
the  whole  house  was  in  an  uproar— shouts 
from  the  gallery — shouts  of  laughter, 
hoots,  hisses,  catcalls,  cock-crows. 

She  stopped  and  glared  like  a  brave 
lioness,  and  called  out: 

"Qu'est-ce  que  vous  avez  done,  tous! 
tas  de  vieilles  pommes  cuites  que   vous 


etes!  Est-ce  qu'on  a  peur  de  vous?"  and 
then,  suddenly: 

"Why,  you're  all  English,  aren't  you? 
— what's  all  the  row  about? — what  have 
you  brought  me  here  for? — what  have  I 
done,  I  should  like  to  know?" 

And  in  asking  these  questions  the  depth 
and  splendor  of  her  voice  were  so  extraor- 
dinary— its  tone  so  pathetically  feminine, 
yet  so  full  of  hurt  and  indignant  com- 
mand, that  the  tumult  was  stilled  for  a 
moment. 

It  was  the  voice  of  some  being  from 
another  world  —  some  insulted  daughter 
of  a  race  more  puissant  and  nobler  than 
ours;  a  voice  that  seemed  as  if  it  could 
never  utter  a  false  note. 

Then  came  a  voice  from  the  gods  in 
answer: 

"Oh,  ye're  Henglish,  har  yer?  Why 
don't  yer  sing  as  yer  hought  to  sing — 
yer've  got  voice  enough,  any  'ow!  why 
don't  yer  sing  in  tunef" 

"Sing  in  tune!"  cried  Trilby.  "I 
didn't  want  to  sing  at  all — I  only  sang 
because  I  was  asked  to  sing — that  gentle- 
man asked  me — that  French  gentleman 
with  the  white  waistcoat!  I  won't  sing 
another  note !" 

"Oh,  yer  won't,  won't  yer!  then  let  us 
'ave  our  money  back,  or  we'll  know  what 
fori" 

And  again  the  din  broke  out,  and  the 
uproar  was  frightful. 

Monsieur  J screamed   out   across 

the  theatre:  "  Svengali!  Svengali!  qu'est- 
ce  qu'elle  a  done,  votre  femme?. . .  .Elle 
est  devenue  folle!" 

Indeed  she  had  tried  to  sing  "Ben 
Bolt,"  but  had  sung  it  in  her  old  way — as 
she  used  to  sing  it  in  the  quartier  latin — the 
most  lamentably  grotesque  performance 
ever  heard  out  of  a  human  throat! 

"Svengali!    Svengali!"   shrieked  poor 

Monsieur  J ,  gesticulating  towards  the 

box    where    Svengali   was   sitting,   quite 

impassible,   gazing    at    Monsieur    J . 

and  smiling  a  ghastly  sardonic  smile,  a 
rictus  of  hate  and  triumphant  revenge — 
as  if  he  were  saying, 

"I've  got  the  laugh  of  you  all,  this 
time!" 

Taffy,  the  Laird,  Little  Billee,  the  whole 
house,  were  now  staring  at  Svengali,  and 
his  wife  was  forgotten. 

She  stood  vacantly  looking  at  every- 
body and    everything  —  the    chandelier, 

Monsieur  J ,  Svengali  in  his  box,  the 

people  in  the  stalls,  in  the  gallery — and 


"THE   LAST   THEY   SAW    OF    SVENGALI. 


smiling  as  if  the  noisy  scene  amused  and 
excited  her. 

"Svengali!     Svengali!     Svengali!" 

The  whole  house  took  up  the  cry,  de- 
risively.     Monsieur  J led   Madame 

Svengali  away;  she  seemed  quite  passive. 
That  terrible  figure  of  Svengali's  still  sat, 
immovable,  watching  his  wife's  retreat 
—  still  smiling  his  ghastly  smile.  All 
eyes  were  now  turned  on  him  once  more. 

Monsieur  J was  then  seen  to  enter 

his  box  with  a  policeman  and  two  or  three 
other  men,  one  of  them  in  evening  dress. 
He  quickly  drew  the  curtains  to;  then,  a 
minute  or  two  after,  he  reappeared  on  the 
platform,  bowing  and  scraping  to  the  audi- 
ence, as  pale  as  death,  and  called  for  si- 
lence, the  gentleman  in  evening  dress  by 
his  side ;  and  this  person  exclaimed  that  a 
very  dreadful  thing  had  happened — that 
Monsieur  Svengali  had  suddenly  died  in 
that  box — of  apoplexy  or  heart-disease; 
that  his  wife  had  seen  it  from  her  place 
on  the  stage,  and  had  apparently  gone  out 
of  her  senses,  which  accounted  for  her 
extraordinary  behavior. 

He  added  that  the  money  would  be  re- 
turned at  the  doors,  and  begged  the  audi- 
ence to  disperse  quietly. 

Taffy,  with  his  two  friends  behind  him, 
forced  his  way  to  a  stage  door  he  knew. 


The  Laird  had  no  longer  any  doubts  on 
the  score  of  Trilby's  identity — this  Trilby 
at  all  events ! 

Taffy  knocked  and  thumped  till  the 
door  was  opened,  and  gave  his  card  to  the 
man  who  opened  it,  stating  that  he  and 
his  friends  were  old  friends  of  Madame 
Svengali,  and  must  see  her  at  once. 

The  man  tried  to  slam  the  door  in  his 
face,  but  Taffy  pushed  through,  and  shut 
it  on  the  crowd  outside,  and  insisted 
on  being  taken  to  Monsieur  J im- 
mediately; and  was  so  authoritative  and 
big,  and  looked  such  a  swell,  that  the  man 
was  cowed,  and  led  him. 

They  passed  an  open  door,  through 
which  they  had  a  glimpse  of  a  prostrate 
form  on  a  table — a  man  partially  undress- 
ed, and  some  men  bending  over  him,  doc- 
tors probably. 

That  was  the  last  they  saw  of  Sven- 
gali. 

Then  they  were  taken  to  another  door, 

and  Monsieur  J came  out,  and  Taffy 

explained  who  they  were,  and  they  were 
admitted. 

La  Svengali  was  there,  sitting  in  an 
arm-chair  by  the  fire,  with  several  of  the 
band  standing  round  gesticulating,  and 
talking  German  or  Polish  or  Yiddish. 
Gecko,  on  his  knees,  was  alternately  chaf- 


276 


HARPER'S    NEW    MONTHLY    MAGAZINE. 


ing  her  hands  and  feet.  She  seemed  quite 
dazed. 

But  at  the  sight  of  Taffy  she  jumped  up 
and  rushed  at  him,  saying:  "Oh,  Taffy 
dear  —  oh,  Taffy!  what's  it  all  about? 
Where  on  earth  am  I?  What  an  age  since 
we  met?" 

Then  she  caught  sight  of  the  Laird,  and 
kissed  him;  and  then  she  recognized  Lit- 
tle Billee. 

She  looked  at  him  for  a  long  while  in 
great  surprise,  and  then  shook  hands  with 
him. 

"  How  pale  you  are !  and  so  changed — 
you've  got  a  mustache !  What's  the  mat- 
ter? Why  are  you  all  dressed  in  black, 
with  white  cravats,  as  if  you  were  going 
to  a  ball?  Where's  Svengali?  I  should 
like  to  go  home !" 

"Where — what  do  you  call — home,  I 
mean — where  is  it?"  asked  Taffy. 

"  C'est  a  l'hotel  de  Normandie,  dans  le 
Haymarket.  On  va  vous  y  conduire, 
madame !"  said  Monsieur  J . 

"Oui— c'est  ga!"  said  Trilby— "  Hotel 
de  Normandie — mais  Svengali — ou  est-ce 
qu'il  est?" 

"Helas!  madame — il  est  tres  malade!" 

"  Malade?  Qu'est-ce  qu'il  a?  How 
funny  you  look,  with  your  mustache, 
Little  Billee!  dear,  dear  Little  Billee!  so 
pale,  so  very  pale!  Are  you  ill  too?  Oh, 
I  hope  not!  How  glad  I  am  to  see  you 
again — you  can't  tell!  though  I  promised 
your  mother  I  wouldn't — never,  never! 
Where  are  we  now,  dear  Little  Billee?" 

Monsieur  J seemed   to   have   lost 

his  head.  He  was  constantly  running  in 
and  out  of  the  room,  distracted.  The 
bandsmen  began  to  talk  and  try  to  ex- 
plain, in  incomprehensible  French,  to  Taf- 
fy. Gecko  seemed  to  have  disappeared. 
It  was  abewildering  business — noises  from 
outside,  the  tramp  and  bustle  and  shouts 
of  the  departing  crowd,  people  running 

in  and  out  and  asking  for  Monsieur  J , 

policemen,  firemen,  and  what  not! 

Then  Little  Billee,  who  had  been  exert- 
ing the  most  heroic  self-control,  suggested 
that  Trilby  should  come  to  his  house  in 
Fitzroy  Square,  first  of  all,  and  be  taken 
out  of  all  this — and  the  idea  struck  Taffy 
as  a  happy  one — and  it  was  proposed  to 

Monsieur  J ,  who  saw  that  our  three 

friends  were  old  friends  of  Madame  Sven- 
gali's,  and  people  to  be  trusted,  and  he 
was  only  too  glad  to  be  relieved  of  her, 
and  gave  his  consent. 

Little  Billee  and  Taffy  drove  to  Fitzroy 


Square  to  prepare  Little  Billee's  landlady, 
who  was  much  put  out  at  first  at  having 
such  a  novel  and  unexpected  charge  im- 
posed on  her.  It  was  all  explained  to  her 
that  it  must  be  so.  That  Madame  Sven- 
gali, the  greatest  singer  in  Europe  and  an 
old  friend  of  her  tenant's,  had  suddenly 
gone  out  of  her  mind  from  grief  at  the 
tragic  death  of  her  husband,  and  that  for 
this  night  at  least  the  unhappy  lady  must 
sleep  under  that  roof — indeed,  in  Little 
Billee's  own  bed,  and  that  he  would  sleep 
at  a  hotel ;  and  that  a  nurse  would  be  pro- 
vided at  once — it  might  be  only  for  that 
one  night;  and  that  the  lady  was  as  quiet 
as  a  lamb,  and  would  probably  recover 
her  faculties  after  a  night's  rest.  A  doc- 
tor was  sent  for  from  close  by;  and  soon 
Trilby  appeared,  with  the  Laird,  and  her 
appearance  and  her  magnificent  sables 
impressed  Mrs.  Godwin,  the  landlady — 
brought  her  figuratively  on  her  knees. 
Then  Taffy,  the  Laird,  and  Little  Billee 
departed  again  and  dispersed — to  procure 
a  nurse  for  the  night,  to  find  Gecko,  to 
fetch  some  of  Trilby's  belongings  from 
the  Hotel  de  Normandie,  and  her  maid. 

The  maid  (an  old  German  Jewess  and 
Svengali's  relative),  distracted  by  the  news 
of  her  master's  death,  had  gone  to  the 
theatre.  Gecko  was  in  the  hands  of  the 
police.  Things  had  got  to  a  terrible  pass. 
But  our  three  friends  did  their  best,  and 
were  up  most  of  the  night. 

So  much  for  la  Svengali's  debut  in  Lon- 
don. 

The  present  scribe  was  not  present  on 
that  memorable  occasion,  and  has  written 
this  inadequate  and  most  incomplete  de- 
scription partly  from  hearsay  and  private 
information,  partly  from  the  reports  in 
the  contemporary  newspapers. 

Should  any  surviving  eye-witness  of 
that  lamentable  fiasco  read  these  pages, 
and  see  any  gross  inaccuracy  in  this  bald 
account  of  it,  the  P.  S.  will  feel  deeply 
obliged  to  the  same  for  any  corrections  or 
additions,  and  these  will  be  duly  acted 
upon  and  gratefully  acknowledged  in  all 
subsequent  editions;  which  will  be  numer- 
ous, no  doubt,  on  account  of  the  great  in- 
terest still  felt  in  "la  Svengali,"  even  by 
those  who  never  saw  or  heard  her  (and 
they  are  many),  and  also  because  the  pres- 
ent scribe  is  better  qualified  (by  his  oppor- 
tunities) for  the  compiling  of  this  brief 
biographical  sketch  than  any  person  now 
living,  with  the  exception,  of  course,  of 
"  Taffy  "  and  "  the  Laird,"  to  whose  kind- 


TRILBY. 


277 


ness,  even  more  than  to  his  own  personal 
recollections,  he  owes  whatever  it  may 
contain  of  serious  historical  value. 

Next  morning  they  all  three  went  to 
Fitzroy  Square.  Little  Billee  had  slept 
at  Taffy's  rooms  in  Jermyn  Street. 

Trilby  seemed  quite  pathetically  glad  to 
see  them  again.  She  was  dressed  simply 
and  plainly — in  black;  her  trunks  had 
been  sent  from  the  hotel. 


the  soft  eyes"  at  them  all  three,  one  after 
another,  in  her  old  way;  and  the  soft 
eyes  quickly  filled  with  tears. 

She  seemed  ill  and  weak  and  worn  out, 
and  insisted  on  keeping  the  Laird's  hand 
in  hers. 

"What's  the  matter  with  Svengali! 
He  must  be  dead !" 

They  all  three  looked  at  each  other, 
perplexed. 

"Ah!  he's  dead!     I  can  see  it  in  your 


"three  nice  clean  englishmen." 


The  hospital  nurse  was  with  her;  the 
tloctor  had  just  left.  He  had  said  that 
she  was  suffering  from  some  great  nervous 
shock — a  pretty  safe  diagnosis! 

Her  wits  had  apparently  not  come  back, 
and  she  seemed  in  no  way  to  realize  her 
position. 

"Ah!  what  it  is  to  see  you  again,  all 
three!  It  makes  one  feel  glad  to  be 
alive!  I've  thought  of  many  things,  but 
never  of  this — never!  Three  nice  clean 
Englishmen,  all  speaking  English— and 
such  dear  old  friends !  Ah  !  j'aime  tant 
<^a — c'est  le  ciei!  I  wonder  I've  got  a 
word  of  English  left!" 

Her  voice  was  so  soft  and  sweet  and 
low  that  these  ingenuous  remarks  sound- 
ed like  a  beautiful  song.    And  she  "  made 


faces.  He'd  got  heart-disease.  I'm  sor- 
ry! oh,  very  sorry  indeed!  He  was  al- 
ways very  kind,  poor  Svengali!" 

"  Yes.     He's  dead,"  said  Taffy. 

"And  Gecko— dear  little  Gecko — is 
he  dead  too?  I  saw  him  last  night — he 
warmed  my  hands  and  feet:  where  were 
we?" 

"No.  Gecko's  not  dead.  But  he's 
had  to  be  locked  up  for  a  little  while. 
He  struck  Svengali,  you  know.  You 
saw  it  all." 

"I?  No!  I  never  saw  it.  But  I 
dreamt  something  like  it!  Gecko  with 
a  knife,  and  people  holding  him,  and 
Svengali  bleeding  on  the  ground.  That 
was  just  before  Svengali's  illness.  He'd 
cut  himself  in  the  neck,  you  know— with 


278 


HARPER'S    NEW    MONTHLY    MAGAZINE. 


a  rusty  nail,  he  told  me.  I  wonder 
how?  .  .  .  But  it  was  wrong-  of  Gecko  to 
strike  him.  They  were  such  friends. 
Why  did  he?" 

"Well — it  was  because  Svengali  struck 
you  with  his  conductor's  wand  when  you 
were  rehearsing".  Struck  you  on  the  fin- 
gers and  made  you  cry!  don't  you  re- 
member?" 

"Struck  me!  rehearsing  ?— made  me 
cry!  what  are  you  talking  about,  dear 
Taffy?  Svengali  never  struck  me!  he 
was  kindness  itself!  always!  and  what 
should  /rehearse?" 

"Well,  the  songs  you  were  to  sing  at 
the  theatre  in  the  evening." 

"  Sing  at  the  theatre !  I  never  sang  at 
any  theatre — except  last  night,  if  that  big 
place  was  a  theatre !  and  they  didn't  seem 
to  like  it!  I'll  take  precious  good  care 
never  to  sing  in  a  theatre  again!  How 
they  howled!  and  there  was  Svengali  in 
the  box  opposite,  laughing  at  me.  Why 
was  I  taken  there  ?  and  why  did  that 
funny  little  Frenchman  in  the  white 
waistcoat  make  me  sing?  I  know  very 
well  I  can't  sing  well  enough  to  sing  in  a 
place  like  that!  It  all  seems  like  a  bad 
dream  !  What  was  it  all  about?  Was  it 
a  dream,  I  wonder!" 

"Well — but  don't  you  remember  sing- 
ing at  Paris,  in  the  Salle  des  Bashiba- 
zoucks — and  at  Vienna— St.  Petersburg — 
lots  of  places?" 

"What  nonsense,  dear — you're  think- 
ing of  some  one  else !  I  never  sang  any- 
where! I've  been  to  Vienna  and  St.  Pe- 
tersburg— but  I  never  sang  there — good 
heavens!" 

Then  there  was  a  pause,  and  our  three 
friends  looked  at  her  helplessly. 

Little  Billee  said:  "Tell  me,  Trilby— 
what  made  you  cut  me  dead  when  I 
bowed  to  you  in  the  Place  de  la  Concorde, 
and  you  were  riding  with  Svengali  in 
that  swell  carriage?" 

"  /never  rode  in  a  swell  carriage  with 
Svengali!  omnibuses  were  more  in  our 
line !  You're  dreaming,  dear  Little  Billee 
— you're  taking  me  for  somebody  else; 
—and  as  for  my  cutting  you— why,  I'd 
sooner  cut  myself — into  little  pieces?" 

"  Where  were  you  staying  with  Sven- 
gali in  Paris?" 

"I  really  forget.  Were  we  in  Paris? 
Oh  yes,  of  course.  Hotel  Bertrand,  Place 
Notre  Dame  des  Victoires." 

"  How  long  have  you  been  going  about 
with  Svengali?" 


"Oh,  months,  years— I  forget.  I  was 
very  ill.     He  cured  me." 

"111?     What  was  the  matter?" 

"  Oh  !  I  was  mad  with  grief,  and  pain 
in  my  eyes,  and  wanted  to  kill  myself, 
when  I  lost  my  dear  little  Jeannot,  at 
Vibraye.  I  fancied  I  hadn't  been  care- 
ful enough  with  him.  I  was  crazed ! 
Don't  you  remember  writing  to  me  there, 
Taffy?  through  Angel e  Boisse?  Such  a 
sweet  letter  you  wrote!  I  know  it  by 
heart!  And  you  too,  Sandy;"  and  she 
kissed  him.  "I  wonder  where  they  are, 
your  letters?— I've  got  nothing  of  my  own 
in  the  world — not  even  your  dear  letters 
— nor  Little  Billee's— such  lots  of  them ! 

"Well,  Svengali  used  to  write  to  me 
too — and  then  he  got  my  address  from 
Angele.  .  .  . 

"  When  Jeannot  died,  I  felt  I  must  kill 
myself  or  get  away  from  Vibraye — get 
away  from  the  people  there — so  when  he 
was  buried  I  cut  my  hair  short  and  got  a 
workman's  cap  and  blouse  and  trousers 
and  walked  all  the  way  to  Paris  without 
saying  anything  to  anybody.  I  didn't 
want  anybody  to  know;  I  wanted  to  es- 
cape from  Svengali,  who  wrote  that  he 
was  coming  there  to  fetch  me.  I  wanted 
to  hide  in  Paris.  When  I  got  there  at 
last,  it  was  twTo  o'clock  in  the  morning, 
and  I  was  in  dreadful  pain — and  I'd  lost 
all  my  money — thirty  francs — through  a 
hole  in  my  trousers  pocket.  Besides,  I  had 
a  row  with  a  carter  in  the  Halle.  He 
thought  I  was  a  man,  and  hit  me  and 
gave  me  a  black  eye,  just  because  I  patted 
his  horse  and  fed  it  with  a  carrot  I'd  been 
trying  to  eat  myself.  He  was  tipsy,  I 
think.  Well,  I  looked  over  the  bridge  at 
the  river — just  by  the  Morgue — and  want- 
ed to  jump  in.  But  the  Morgue  sickened 
me,  so  I  hadn't  the  pluck.  Svengali  used 
to  be  always  talking  about  the  Morgue, 
and  my  going  there  some  day.  He  used 
to  say  he'd  come  and  look  at  me  there, 
and  the  idea  made  me  so  sick  I  couldn't. 
I  got  bewildered,  and  quite  stupid. 

' '  Then  I  went  to  Angele's  in  the  Rue 
des  Cloitres  Ste.-Petronille,  and  waited 
about;  but  I  hadn't  the  courage  to  ring, 
so  I  went  to  the  Place  St.-Anatole  des 
Arts,  and  looked  up  at  the  old  studio 
window,  and  thought  how  comfortable  it 
was  in  there,  with  the  big  settee  near  the 
stove,  and  all  that,  and  felt  inclined  to 
ring  up  Madame  Vinard;  and  then  I  re- 
membered Little  Billee  was  ill  there,  and 
his   mother  and   sister   were  with   him. 


TRILBY. 


279 


Angele  had  written  me,  you  know.     Poor 
Little  Billee!     There  he  was,  very  ill! 

"So  I  walked  about  the  place,  and  up 
and  down  the  Rue  des  Mauvais  Ladres. 
Then  I  went  down  the  Rue  de  Seine  to 
the  river  again,  and  again  I  hadn't  the 
pluck  to  jump  in.  Besides,  there  was  a  ser- 
gent  de  ville  who  followed  and  watched 
me.  And  the  fun  of  it  was  that  I  knew 
him  quite  well,  and  he  didn't  know  me  a 
bit.  It  was  Celestin  Beaumollet,  who 
got  so  tipsy  on  Christmas  night.  Don't 
you  remember?  The  tall  one,  who  was 
pitted  with  the  small-pox. 

"Then  I  walked  about  till  near  day- 
light. Then  I  could  stand  it  no  longer, 
and  went  to  Svengali's  in  the  Rue  Tire- 
liard,  but  he'd  moved  to  the  Rue  des 
Saints-Peres;  and  I  went  there  and  found 
him.  He  was  very  kind,  and  cured  me 
almost  directly,  and  got  me  coffee  and 
bread  and  butter — the  best  I  ever  tasted — 
and  a  warm  bath  from  Bidet  Freres  in  the 
Rue  Savonarole.  It  was  heavenly  !  And 
I  slept  for  two  days  and  two  nights !  And 
then  he  told  me  how  fond  he  was  of  me, 
and  how  he  would  always  cure  me,  and 
take  care  of  me,  and  marry  me,  if  I  would 
go  away  with  him.  He  said  he  would 
devote  his  whole  life  to  me. 

"I  staid  with  him  there  a  week,  never 
going  out  or  seeing  any  one,  mostly 
asleep.     I'd  caught  a  chill. 

"  He  played  in  two  concerts  and  made 
a  lot  of  money ;  and  then  we  went  away 
to  Germany  together;  and  no  one  was  a 
bit  the  wiser." 

"  And  did  he  marry  you?" 

"  Well — no.  He  couldn't,  poor  fellow ! 
He'd  already  got  a  wife  living,  and  three 
children,  which  he  declared  were  not  his. 
They  live  in  Elberfeld  in  Prussia;  she 
keeps  a  small  sweet-stuff  shop  there.  He 
behaved  very  badly  to  them.  But  it 
was  not  through  me !  He'd  deserted  them 
long  before;  but  he  used  to  send  them 
plenty  of  money  when  he'd  got  any ;  I 
made  him,  for  I  was  very  sorry  for  her. 
He  was  always  talking  about  her,  and 
what  she  said  and  what  she  did,  and  imi- 
tating her  saying  her  prayers,  and  eating 
pickled  cucumber  with  one  hand  and 
drinking  schnapps  with  the  other,  so  as 
not  to  lose  any  time;  till  he  made  me  die 
of  laughing.  He  could  be  very  funny, 
Svengali,  though  he  was  German,  poor 
dear!  And  then  Gecko  joined  us,  and 
Marta." 

"  Who's  Marta?" 


"  THE    OLD    STUDIO.' 


"His  aunt.  She  cooked  for  us,  and 
all  that.  She's  coming  here  presently; 
she  sent  word  from  the  hotel;  she's  very 
fond  of  him.  Poor  Marta!  Poor  Gecko! 
What  will  they  ever  do  without  Sven- 
gali?" 

"Then  what  did  he  do  to  live?" 

"Oh!  he  played  at  concerts,  I  suppose 
—and  all  that." 

"  Did  you  ever  hear  him?" 

"Yes.  Sometimes  Marta  took  me:  at 
the  beginning,  you  know.  He  was  al- 
ways very  much  applauded.  He  plays 
beautifully.     Everybody  said  so." 

"Did  he  never  try  and  teach  you  to 
sing?" 

"Oh,  maie,  aie!  not  he!  Why,  he  al- 
ways laughed  when  I  tried  to  sing;  and 
so  did  Marta;  and  so  did  Gecko !  It  made 
them  roar!  I  used  to  sing  'Ben  Bolt.' 
They  used  to  make  me,  just  for  fun — 
and  go  into  fits.  I  didn't  mind  a  scrap. 
I'd  had  no  training,  you  know!" 

"Was  there  anybody  else  he  knew — 
any  other  woman?" 


ET   MAINTENANT   DORS,  MA   MIGNONNE ! 


"Not  that  I  know  of!  He  always 
made  out  he  was  so  fond  of  me  that  he 
couldn't  even  look  at  another  woman. 
Poor  Svengali I"  (Here  her  eyes  filled 
with  tears  again.)  "He  was  always 
very  kind !  But  I  could  never  be  fond  of 
him  in  the  way  he  wished — never!  It 
made  me  sick  even  to  think  of!  Once  I 
used  to  hate  him — in  Paris — in  the  studio; 
don't  you  remember? 

"He  hardly  ever  left  me;  and  then 
Marta  looked  after  me — for  I've  always 
been  weak  and  ill — and  often  so  languid 
that  I  could  hardly  walk  across  the  room. 
It  was  that  walk  from  Vibraye  to  Paris. 
I  never  got  over  it. 

"I  used  to  try  and  do  all  I  could — be  a 
daughter  to  him,  as  I  couldn't  be  anything 
else — mend  his  things,  and  all  that,  and 
cook  him  little  French  dishes.  I  fancy 
he  was  very  poor  at  one  time;  we  were 
always  moving  from  place  to  place.  But 
I  always  had  the  best  of  everything.  He 
insisted  on  that — even  if  he  had  to  go 
without  himself.  It  made  him  quite  un- 
happy when  I  wouldn't  eat,  so  I  used  to 
force  myself. 

"Then,  as  soon  as  I  felt  uneasy  about 
things,  or  had  any  pain,  he  would  say, 


'  Dors,  ma  mignonne !'  and  I  would  sleep 
at  once — for  hours,  I  think — and  wake  up, 
oh,  so  tired!  and  find  him  kneeling  by 
me,  always  so  anxious  and  kind — and 
Marta  and  Gecko!  and  sometimes  we  had 
the  doctor,  and  I  was  ill  in  bed. 

' '  Gecko  used  to  dine  and  breakfast 
with  us — you've  no  idea  what  an  angel 
he  is,  poor  little  Gecko !  But  what  a  dread- 
ful thing  to  strike  Svengali !  Why  did  he? 
Svengali  taught  him  all  he  knows!" 

"  And  you  knew  no  one  else?  no  other 
woman?" 

"No  one  that  I  can  remember — except 
Marta— not  a  soul!" 

"And  that  beautiful  dress  you  had  on 
last  night?" 

"It  isn't  mine.  It's  on  the  bed  up- 
stairs, and  so's  the  fur  cloak.  They  be- 
long to  Marta.  She's  got  lots  of  them, 
lovely  things— silk,  satin,  velvet — and  lots 
of  beautiful  jewels.  Marta  deals  in  them, 
and  makes  lots  of  money. 

"I've  often  tried  them  on;  I'm  very 
easy  to  fit,"  she  said,  "being  so  tall  and 
thin.  And  poor  Svengali  would  kneel 
down  and  cry,  and  kiss  my  hands  and 
feet,  and  tell  me  I  was  his  goddess  and 
empress,  and  all  that,  which  I  hate.    And 


TRILBY. 


281 


Marta  used  to  cry.  And  then  lie  would 
say, 

11  'Et  maintenant  dors,  ma  mignonne!' 

"And  when  I  woke  up  I  was  so  tired 
that  I  went  to  sleep  again  on  my  own 
account. 

"But  he  was  very  patient.  Oh,  dear 
me!  I've  always  been  a  poor  helpless  use- 
less log  and  burden  to  him  ! 

"  Once  I  actually  walked  in  my  sleep 
— and  woke  up  in  the  market-place  at 
Prague — and  found  an  immense  crowd, 
and  poor  Svengali  bleeding  from  the  fore- 
head, in  a  faint  on  the  ground.  He'd 
been  knocked  down  by  a  horse  and  cart, 
he  told  me.  He'd  got  his  guitar  with 
him.  I  suppose  he  and  Gecko  had  been 
playing  somewhere,  for  Gecko  had  his 
fiddle.  If  Gecko  hadn't  been  there,  I 
don't  know  what  we  should  have  done. 
You  never  saw  such  queer  people  as  they 
were — such  crowds — you'd  think  they'd 
never  seen  an  English  woman  before. 
The  noise  they  made,  and  the  things  they 
gave  me ....  some  of  them  went  down 
on  their  knees,  and  kissed  my  hands  and 
the  skirts  of  my  gown. 

"He  was  ill  in  bed  for  a  week  after 
that,  and  I  nursed  him,  and  he  was  very 
grateful.  Poor  Svengali !  God  knows  I 
feel  grateful  to  him  for  many  things! 
Tell  me  how  he  died!  I  hope  he  hadn't 
much  pain." 

They  told  her  it  was  quite  sudden,  from 
heart-disease. 

"Ah!  I  knew  he  had  that;  he  wasn't 
a  healthy  man  ;  he  used  to  smoke  too 
much.  Marta  used  always  to  be  very 
anxious." 

Just  then  Marta  came  in. 

Marta  was  a  fat  elderly  Jewess  of  rather 
a  grotesque  and  ignoble  type.  She  seemed 
overcome  with  grief — all  but  prostrate. 

Trilby  hugged  and  kissed  her,  and  took 
off  her  bonnet  and  shawl,  and  made  her 
sit  down  in  a  big  arm-chair,  and  got  her 
a  footstool. 

She  couldn't  speak  a  word  of  anything 
but  Polish  and  a  little  German.  Trilby 
had  also  picked  up  a  little  German,  and 
with  this  and  by  means  of  signs,  and  no 
doubt  through  a  long  intimacy  with  each 
other's  ways,  they  understood  each  other 
very  well.  She  seemed  a  very  good  old 
creature,  and  very  fond  of  Trilby,  but  in 
mortal  terror  of  the  three  Englishmen. 

Lunch  was  brought  up  for  the  two  wo- 
men and  the  nurse,  and  our  friends  left 
them,  promising  to  come  again  that  day. 


They  were  utterly  bewildered;  and  the 
Laird  would  have  it  that  there  was  an- 
other Madame  Svengali  somewhere,  the 
real  one,  and  that  Trilby  was  a  fraud — 
self-deceived  and  self -deceiving — quite  un- 
consciously so,  of  course. 

Truth  looked  out  of  her  eyes,  as  it  al- 
ways had  done — truth  was  in  every  line 
of  her  face. 

The  truth  only — nothing  but  the  truth 
could  ever  be  told  in  that  "voice  of  vel- 
vet," which  rang  as  true  when  she  spoke 
as  that  of  any  thrush  or  nightingale, 
however  rebellious  it  might  be  now  (and 
forever  perhaps)  to  artificial  melodic  laws 
and  limitations  and  restraints.  The  long 
training  it  had  been  subjected  to  had 
made  it  "a  wonder,  a  world's  delight," 
and  though  she  might  never  sing  another 
note,  her  mere  speech  would  always  be 
more  golden  than  any  silence,  whatever 
she  might  say. 

Except  on  the  oiie  particular  point  of 
her  singing,  she  had  seemed  absolutely 
sane ;  so,  at  least,  thought  Taffy,  the- 
Laird,  and  Little  Billee.  And  each 
thought  to  himself,  besides,  that  this  last 
incarnation  of  Trilbiness  was  quite  the 
sweetest,  most  touching,  most  endearing^ 
of  all. 

They  had  not  failed  to  note  how  rap- 
idly she  had  aged,  now  that  they  had  seen 
her  without  her  rouge  and  pearl-powder; 
she  looked  thirty  at  least — she  was  only 
twenty-three. 

Her  hands  were  almost  transparent  in 
their  waxen  whiteness ;  delicate  little 
frosty  wrinkles  had  gathered  round  her 
eyes;  there  were  gray  streaks  in  her  hair; 
all  strength  and  straightness  and  elas- 
ticity seemed  to  have  gone  out  of  her- 
with  the  memory  of  her  endless  triumphs 
(if  she  really  tvas  la  Svengali),  and  of 
her  many  wanderings  from  city  to  city 
all  over  Europe. 

It  was  evident  enough  that  the  sudden 
stroke  which  had  destroyed  her  power  of 
singing  had  left  her  physically  a  wreck. 

But  she  was  one  of  those  rarely  gifted 
beings  who  cannot  look  or  speak  or  even 
stir  without  waking  up  (and  satisfying) 
some  vague  longing  that  lies  dormant  in 
the  hearts  of  most  of  us,  men  and  women 
alike;  grace,  charm,  magnetism — what- 
ever the  nameless  seduction  should  be 
called  that  she  possessed  to  such  an  un- 
usual degree  —  she  had  lost  none  of  it 
where  she  lost  her  high  spirits,  her  buoy- 
ant health  and  energy,  her  wits! 


282 


HARPER'S    NEW    MONTHLY    MAGAZINE. 


"taffy  was  allowed  to  see  gecko. 


Tuneless  and  insane,  she  was  more  of  a 
siren  than  ever — a  quite  unconscious  si- 
ren— without  any  guile,  who  appealed  to 
the  heart  all  the  more  directly  and  irre- 
sistibly that  she  could  no  longer  stir  the 
passions. 

All  this  was  keenly  felt  by  all  three — 
each  in  his  different  way — by  Taffy  and 
Little  Billee  especially. 

All  her  past  life  was  forgiven — her  sins 
of  omission  and  commission  !  And  what- 
ever might  be  her  fate— recovery,  mad- 
ness, disease,  or  death — the  care  of  her  till 
she  died  or  recovered  should  be  the  prin- 
cipal business  of  their  lives. 

Both  had  loved  her.  One  had  been 
loved  by  her  as  passionately,  as  purely, 
as  unselfishly,  as  any  man  could  wish  to 
be  loved,  and  in  some  extraordinary  man- 
ner had  recovered,  after  many  years,  at 
the  mere  sudden  sight  and  sound  of  her, 
his  lost  share  in  our  common  inherit- 
ance—the power  to  love,  and  all  its  joy 
and  sorrow,  without  which  he  had  found 
life  not  worth  living,  though  he  had  pos- 
sessed every  other  gift  and  blessing  in 
such  abundance. 

"  Oh,  Circe,  poor  Circe,  dear  Circe,  di- 
vine enchantress  that  you  were!"  he  said 
to  himself,  in  his  excitable  manner.  "A 
mere  look  from  your  eyes,  a  mere  note  of 


your  heavenly  voice,  has  turned  a  poor 
miserable  callous  brute  back  into  a  man 
again  !  and  I  will  never  forget  it — never! 
And  now  that  a  still  worse  trouble  than 
mine  has  befallen  you,  you  shall  always 
be  first  in  my  thoughts  till  the  end !" 

And  Taffy  felt  pretty  much  the  same, 
though  he  wras  not  by  way  of  talking  to 
himself  so  eloquently  about  things  as 
Little  Billee. 

As  they  lunched,  they  read  the  accounts 
of  the  previous  evening's  events  in  differ- 
ent papers,  three  or  four  of  which  (includ- 
ing the  Times)  had  already  got  leaders 
about  the  famous  but  unhappy  singer  who 
had  been  so  suddenly  widowed  and  struck 
down  in  the  midst  of  her  glory.  All  these 
accounts  were  more  or  less  correct.  In 
one  paper  it  was  mentioned  that  Madame 
Svengali  was  under  the  roof  and  care  of 
Mr.  William  Bagot,  the  painter,  in  Fitz- 
roy  Square. 

The  inquest  on  Svengali  was  to  take 
place  that  afternoon,  and  also  Gecko's  ex- 
amination at  the  Bow  Street  Police  Court, 
for  his  assault. 

Taffy  was  allowed  to  see  Gecko,  who 
wTas  remanded  till  the  result  of  the  post- 
mortem should  be  made  public.  But 
beyond  inquiring  most  anxiously  and 
minutely  after  Trilby,  and  betraying  the 
most  passionate  concern  for  her,  he  would 
say  nothing,  and  seemed  indifferent  as  to 
his  own  fate. 

When  they  went  to  Fitzroy  Square,  late 
in  the  afternoon,  they  found  that  many 
people,  musical,  literary,  fashionable,  and 
otherwise  (and  many  foreigners),  had 
called  to  inquire  after  Madame  Svengali, 
but  no  one  had  been  admitted  to  see  her. 
Mrs.  Godwin  was  much  elated  by  the  im- 
portance of  her  new  lodger. 

Trilby  had  been  writing  to  An  gel  e 
Boisse,  at  her  old  address  in  the  Rue  des 
Cloitres  Ste.-Petronille,  in  the  hope  that 
this  letter  would  find  her  still  there.  She 
was  anxious  to  go  back  and  be  a  blan- 
chisseuse  de  fin  with  her  friend.  It  was 
a  kind  of  nostalgia  for  Paris,  the  quartier 
latin,  her  clean  old  trade. 

This  project  our  three  heroes  did  not 
think  it  necessary  to  discuss  with  her  just 
yet;  she  seemed  quite  unfit  for  work  of 
any  kind. 

The  doctor,  who  had  seen  her  again, 
had  been  puzzled  by  her  strange  physical 
weakness,  and  wished  for  a  consultation 
with  some  special  authority;  Little  Billee, 


TRILBY. 


283 


who  was  intimate  with  most  of  the  great 
physicians,  wrote  about  her  to  Sir  Oliver 
Calthorpe. 

She  seemed  to  find  a  deep  happiness  in 
being  with  her  three  old  friends,  and 
talked  and  listened  with  all  her  old  eager- 
ness and  geniality,  and  much  of  her  old 
gayety,  in  spite  of  her  strange  and  sorrow- 
ful position.  But  for  this  it  was  impossi- 
ble to  realize  that  her  brain  was  affected 
in  the  slightest  degree,  except  when  some 
reference  was  made  to  her  singing,  and 
this  seemed  to  annoy  and  irritate  her,  as 
though  she  were  being  made  fun  of.  The 
whole  of  her  marvellous  musical  career, 
and  everything  connected  with  it,  had 
been  clean  wiped  out  of  her  recollec- 
tion. 

She  was  very  anxious  to  get  into  other 
quarters,  that  Little  Billee  should  suffer 
no  inconvenience,  and  they  promised  to 
take  rooms  for  her  and  Marta  on  the 
morrow. 

They  told  her  cautiously  about  Svengali 
and  Gecko ;  she  was  deeply  concerned,  but 
betrayed  no  such  poignant  anguish  as 
might  have  been  expected.  The  thought 
of  Gecko  troubled  her  most,  and  she 
showed  much  anxiety  as  to  what  might 
befall  him. 


Next  day  she  moved  with  Marta  to 
some  lodgings  in  Charlotte  Street,  where 
everything  was  made  as  comfortable  for 
them  as  possible. 

Sir  Oliver  saw  her  with  Dr.  Thorne 
(the  doctor  who  was  attending  her)  and 
Sir  Jacob  Wilcox. 

Sir  Oliver  took  the  greatest  interest  in 
her  case,  both  for  her  sake  and  his  friend 
Little  Billee's.  Also  his  own,  for  he  was 
charmed  with  her.  He  saw  her  three 
times  in  the  course  of  the  week,  but  could 
not  say  for  certain  what  was  the  matter 
with  her,  beyond  taking  the  very  gravest 
view  of  her  condition.  For  all  he  could 
advise  or  prescribe,  her  weakness  and 
physical  prostration  increased  rapidly, 
through  no  cause  he  could  discover.  Her 
insanity  was  not  enough  to  account  for 
it.  She  lost  weight  daily;  she  seemed  to 
be  wasting  and  fading  away  from  sheer 
general  atrophy. 

Two  or  three  times  he  took  her  and 
Marta  for  a  drive. 

On  one  of  these  occasions,  as  they  went 
down  Charlotte  Street,  she  saw  a  shop 
with  transparent  French  blinds  in  the 
window,  and  through  them  some  French 
women,  with  neat  white  caps,  ironing.  It 
was  a  French  blanchisserie  defin,  and  the 


A   FAIR   BLANCHISSEUSE   DE    FIN. 


284 


HARPER'S    NEW    MONTHLY    MAGAZINE. 


sight  of  it  interested  and  excited  her  so 
much  that  she  must  needs  insist  on  being 
put  down  and  on  going  into  it. 

"  Je  voudrais  bien  parler  a  la  patronne, 
si  ca  ne  la  derange  pas,"  she  said. 

The  patronne,  a  genial  Parisian,  was 
much  astonished  to  hear  a  great  French 
lady,  in  costly  garments,  evidently  a  per- 
son of  fashion  and  importance,  applying  to 
her  rather  humbly  for  employment  in  the 
business,  and  showing  a  thorough  know- 
ledge of  the  work  (and  of  the  Parisian 
work-woman's  colloquial  dialect).  Marta 
managed  to  catch  the  patronne's  eye,  and 
tapped  her  own  forehead  significantly, 
and  Sir  Oliver  nodded.  So  the  good  wo- 
man humored  the  great  lady's  fancy,  and 
promised  her  abundance  of  employment 
whenever  she  should  want  it. 

Employment!  Poor  Trilby  was  hardly 
strong  enough  to  walk  back  to  the  car- 
riage; and  this  was  her  last  outing. 


But  this  little  adventure  filled  her  with 
hope  and  good  spirits — for  she  had  as  yet 
received  no  answer  from  Angele  Boisse 
(who  was  in  Marseilles),  and  had  begun 
to  realize  how  dreary  the  quartier  latin 
would  be  without  Jeannot,  without  An- 
gele, without  the  trois  Angliches  in  the 
Place  St.-Anatole  des  Arts. 

She  was  not  allowed  to  see  any  of  the 
strangers  who  came  and  made  kind  in- 
quiries. This  her  doctors  had  strictly  for- 
bidden. Any  reference  to  music  or  sing- 
ing irritated  her  beyond  measure.  She 
would  say  to  Marta,  in  bad  German: 

"Tell  them,  Marta — what  nonsense  it 
is !  They  are  taking  me  for  another — they 
are  mad.  They  are  trying  to  make  a  fool 
of  me!" 

And  Marta  would  betray  great  uneas- 
iness— almost  terror— -when  she  was  ap- 
pealed to  in  this  way. 

[to  be  continued.] 


TERRA   MARIQUE. 

BY    C.   H.   GOLDTHWAITE. 


w 


I. 

ITH  thee  on  land  or  sea, 
I  ask  no  more. 
With  thee,  on  land  or  sea! 
In  crowded  street  or  ocean's  solitude, 

In  calm  or  storm,  in  pleasure  or  in  pain, 
Through  toil  and  dole  to  life's  supremest  day,- 
With  thee  in  sweet  content  on  land  or  sea, 
I  ask  no  more. 


II. 

With  thee  on  land  or  sea, 

I  ask  no  more. 
With  thee,  on  land  or  sea! 
Welcome  the  frown  of  fate,  the  scorn  of  time; 

Welcome  the  small  estate,  the  simple  life; 
Welcome  all  care,  all  loss,  all  suffering. 

With  thee  in  sweet  content  on  land  or  sea, 
I  ask  no  more. 


III. 

With  thee  on  land  or  sea,  , 

I  ask  no  more. 
With  thee,  on  land  or  sea! 
Ah,  God!   the  gift  is  thine,  immortal  Love! 

Thy  gift  to  man,  in  weal  or  woe  the  same. 
Thy  land!     Thy  sea!     Thine  image  in  her  face 
With  whom  in  sweet  content  I  live,  I  die, — 
With  thee  on  land  or  sea. 


TKILBY.* 


BY  GEORGE  DU  MAURIER. 


$art  IBfflijtl). 


"  La  vie  est  vaine : 
Un  peu  d'amour, 
Un  peu  de  haine.  .  .  . 
•   Et  puis — bonjour  ! 

**  La  vie  est  breve : 
Un  peu  d'espoir, 
Un  peu  de  reve.  .  .  . 
Et  puis — bonsoir!" 

SVENGALI  had  died  from  heart-dis- 
ease. The  cut  he  had  received  from 
Gecko  had  not  apparently  (as  far  as  the 
verdict  of  a  coroner's  inquest  could  be 
trusted)  had  any  effect  in  aggravating  his 
malady  or  hastening  his  death. 

But  Gecko  was  sent  for  trial  at  the 
Old  Bailey,  and  sentenced  to  hard  labor 
for  six  months.  Taffy  saw  him  again, 
but  with  no  better  result  than  before.  He 
chose  to  preserve  an  obstinate  silence  on 
his  relations  with  the  Svengalis  and  their 
relations  with  eacli  other. 

When  he  was  told  how  hopelessly  ill 
and  insane  Madame  Svengali  was,  he 
shed  a  few  tears,  and  said:  "Ah,  pau- 
vrette,  pauvrette — ah!  monsieur — je  l'ai- 
mais  tant,  je  l'aimais  tant!  il  n'y  en  a  pas 
beaucoup  comme  elle,  Dieu  de  misere! 
C'est  un  ange  du  Paradis!" 

And  not  another  word  was  to  be  got 
out  of  him. 

It  took  some  time  to  settle  Svengali's 
affairs  after  his  death.  No  will  was 
found.  His  old  mother  came  over  from 
Germany,  and  two  of  his  sisters,  but  no 
wife.  The  comic  wife  and  the  three  chil- 
dren, and  the  sweet-stuff  shop  in  Elber- 
feld,  had  been  humorous  inventions  of  his 
own — a  kind  of  Mrs.  Harris ! 

He  left  three  thousand  pounds,  every 
penny  of  which  (and  of  far  larger  sums 
that  he  had  spent)  had  been  earned  by 
"la  Svengali " ;  but  nothing  came  to  Tril- 
by of  this — nothing  but  the  clothes  and 
jewels  he  had  given  her,  and  in  this  re- 
spect he  had  been  lavish  enough;  and 
there  were  countless  costly  gifts  from  em- 
perors, kings,  great  people  of  all  kinds. 
Trilby  was  under  the  impression  that  all 
these  belonged  to  Marta.  Marta  behaved 
admirably;  she  seemed  bound  hand  and 
foot  to  Trilby  by  a  kind  of  slavish  adora- 


"  OUT   OF   THE   MYSTERIOUS   EAST." 


tion,  as  that  of  a  plain  old  mother  for  a 
brilliant  and  beautiful  but  dying  child. 

It  soon  became  evident  that,  whatever 
her  disease  might  be,  Trilby  had  but  a 
very  short  time  to  live. 

She  was  soon  too  weak  even  to  be  tak- 
en out  in  a  Bath  chair,  and  remained  all 
day  in  her  large  sitting-room  with  Mar- 
ta ;  and  there,  to  her  great  and  only  joy, 
she  received  her  three  old  friends  every 
afternoon,  and  gave  them  coffee,  and 
made  them  smoke  cigarettes  of  caporal 
as  of  old  ;  and  their  hearts  were  daily 
harrowed  as  they  watched  her  rapid  de- 
cline. 

Day  by  day  she  grew  more  beautiful  in 
their  eyes,  in  spite  of  her  increasing  pal- 
lor and  emaciation — her  skin  was  so  pure 
and  white  and  delicate,  and  the  bones  of 
her  face  so  admirable ! 

Her  eyes  recovered  all  their  old  hu- 
morous  brightness   when   les   trois    An- 


*  Begun  in  January  number, 


Vol.  LXXXIX.-No.  531.-39 


352 


HARPER'S    NEW    MONTHLY    MAGAZINE. 


gliches  were  with  her,  and  the  expression 
of  her  face  was  so  wistful  and  tender  for 
all  her  playfulness,  so  full  of  eager  cling- 
ing to  existence  and  to  them,  that  they 
felt  the  memory  of  it  would  haunt  them 
forever,  and  be  the  sweetest  and  saddest 
memory  of  their  lives. 

Her  quick,  though  feeble  gestures,  full 
of  reminiscences  of  the  vigorous  and  live- 
ly girl  they  had  known  a  few  years  back, 
sent  waves  of  pity  through  them  and  pure 
brotherly  love;  and  the  incomparable 
tones  and  changes  and  modulations  of 
her  voice,  as  she  chatted  and  laughed,  be- 
witched them  almost  as  much  as  when 
she  had  sung  the  Nussbaum  of  Schumann 
in  the  Salle  des  Bashibazoucks. 

Sometimes  Lorrimer  came,  and  Joe  Sib- 
ley and  the  Greek.  It  was  like  a  genial 
little  court  of  bohemia.  And  Lorrimer, 
Sibley,  the  Laird,  and  Little  Billee  made 
those  beautiful  chalk  and  pencil  studies 
of  her  head  which  are  now  so  well  known 
— all  so  singularly  like  her,  and  so  singu- 
larly unlike  each  other!  Trilby  vue  a 
travers  quatre  temperaments ! 

These  afternoons  were  probably  the 
happiest  poor  Trilby  had  ever  spent  in 
her  life; — with  these  dear  people  round 
her,   speaking  the  language   she   loved, 


talking  of  old  times  and  jolly  Paris  days, 
she  never  thought  of  the  morrow. 

But  later — at  night,  in  the  small  hours 
— she  would  wake  up  with  a  start  from 
some  dream  full  of  tender  and  blissful 
recollection,  and  suddenly  realize  her  own 
mischance,  and  feel  the  icy  hand  of  that 
which  was  to  come  before  many  morrows 
were  over;  and  taste  the  bitterness  of 
death  so  keenly  that  she  longed  to  scream 
out  loud,  and  get  up,  and  walk  up  and 
down,  and  wring  her  hands  at  the  dread- 
ful thought  of  parting  forever! 

But  she  lay  motionless  and  mum  as  a 
poor  little  frightened  mouse  in  a  trap,  for 
fear  of  waking  up  the  good  old  tired  Mar- 
ta,  who  was  snoring  at  her  side. 

And  in  an  hour  or  two  the  bitterness 
would  pass  away,  the  creeps  and  the  hor- 
rors; and  the  stoical  spirit  of  resignation 
would  steal  over  her— the  balm,  the  bless- 
ed calm!  and  all  her  old  bravery  would 
come  back. 

And  then  she  would  sink  into  sleep 
again,  and  dream  more  blissfully  than 
ever,  till  the  good  Marta  woke  her  with 
a  motherly  kiss  and  a  fragrant  cup  of  cof- 
fee ;  and  she  would  find,  feeble  as  she  was, 
and  doomed  as  she  felt  herself  to  be,  that 
joy  cometh  of  a  morning;  and  life  was 


A   THRONE   IN   BOHEMIA. 


TRILBY. 


353 


still    sweet   for   her,  with    yet    a 
whole  day  to  look  forward  to. 

One  day  she  was  deeply  moved 
at  receiving  a  visit  from  Mrs. 
Bagot,  who,  at  Little  Billee's  ear- 
nest desire,  had  come  all  the  way 
from  Devonshire  to  see  her. 

As  the  graceful  little  lady  came 
in,  pale  and  trembling  all  over, 
Trilby  rose  from  her  chair  to  re- 
ceive her,  and  rather  timidly  put 
out  her  hand,  and  smiled  in  a 
frightened  manner.  Neither  could 
speak  for  a  second.  Mrs.  Bagot 
stood  stock-still  by  the  door, gazing 
(with  all  her  heart  in  her  eyes)  at 
the  so  terribly  altered  Trilby — the 
girl  she  had  once  so  dreaded. 

Trilby,  who  seemed  also  bereft 
of  motion,  and  whose  face  and 
lips  were  ashen,  exclaimed,  "I'm 
afraid  I  haven't  quite  kept  my 
promise  to  you,  after  all!  but 
things  have  turned  out  so  differ- 
ently I  anyhow  you  needn't  have 
any  fear  of  me  now.'1'' 

At  the  mere  sound  of  that  voice, 
Mrs.  Bagot,  who  was  as  impulsive,  emo- 
tional, and  unregulated  as  her  son,  rushed 
forward,  crying,  "Oh,  my  poor  girl,  my 
poor  girl!"  and  caught  her  in  her  arms, 
and  kissed  and  caressed  her,  and  burst 
into  a  flood  of  tears,  and  forced  her  back 
into  her  chair,  hugging  her  as  if  she 
were  a  long-lost  child. 

"I  love  you  now  as  much  as  I  always 
admired  you — pray  believe  it!" 

' '  Oh,  how  kind  of  you  to  say  that !"  said 
Trilby,  her  own  eyes  filling.  "I'm  not 
at  all  the  dangerous  or  designing  person 
you  thought.  I  knew  quite  well  I  wasn't 
a  proper  person  to  marry  your  son  all  the 
time;  and  told  him  so  again  and  again. 
It  was  very  stupid  of  me  to  say  yes  at 
last.  I  was  miserable  directly  after,  I  as- 
sure you.  Somehow  I  couldn't  help  my- 
self— I  was  driven." 

"Oh,  don't  talk  of  that!  don't  talk  of 
that!  You've  never  been  to  blame  in 
any  way — I've  long  known  it — I've  been 
full  of  remorse!  You've  been  in  my 
thoughts  always,  night  and  day.  For- 
give a  poor  jealous  mother.  As  if  any 
man  could  help  loving  you— or  any  wo- 
man either.     Forgive  me!" 

"Oh,  Mrs.  Bagot — forgive  you!  What 
a  funny  idea!  But  anyhow  you've  for- 
given me,  and  that's  all  I  care  for  now. 


"oh,  my  poor  girl!  my  poor  girl,!' 


I  was  very  fond  of  your  son— as  fond  as 
could  be.  I  am  now,  but  in  quite  a  dif- 
ferent sort  of  way,  you  know — the  sort  of 
way  you  must  be,  I  fancy!  There  was 
never  another  like  him  that  I  ever  met — 
anywhere!  You  must  be  so  proud  of 
him:  who  wouldn't!  Nobody's  good 
enough  for  him.  I  would  have  been 
only  too  glad  to  be  his  servant,  his  hum- 
ble servant!  I  used  to  tell  him  so — but 
he  wouldn't  hear  of  it — he  was  much  too 
kind!  He  always  thought  of  others  be- 
fore himself.  And,  oh !  how  rich  and  fa- 
mous he's  become!  I've  heard  all  about 
it,  and  it  did  me  good.  It  does  me  more 
good  to  think  of  than  anything  else;  far 
more  than  if  I  were  to  be  ever  so  rich 
and  famous  myself,  I  can  tell  you!" 

This  from  la  Svengali,  whose  overpow- 
ering fame,  so  utterly  forgotten  by  her- 
self, was  still  ringing  all  over  Europe; 
whose  lamentable  illness  and  approach- 
ing death  were  being  mourned  and  dis- 
cussed and  commented  upon  in  every 
capital  of  the  civilized  world,  as  one  dis- 
tressing bulletin  appeared  after  another. 
She  might  have  been  a  royal  personage ! 

Mrs.  Bagot  knew,  of  course,  the  strange 
form  her  insanity  had  taken,  and  made 
no  allusion  to  the  flood  of  thoughts  that 
rushed  through  her  own  brain  as  she  lis- 


354 


HARPER'S    NEW    MONTHLY    MAGAZINE. 


tened  to  this  towering  goddess  of  song, 
this  poor  mad  queen  of  the  nightingales, 
humbly  gloating  over  her  son's  success. . . . 

Poor  Mrs.  Bagot  had  just  come  from 
Little  Billee's  in  Fitzroy  Square  close  by. 
There  she  had  seen  Taffy,  in  a  corner  of 
Little  Billee's  studio,  laboriously  answer- 
ing endless  letters  and  telegrams  from  all 
parts  of  Europe — for  the  good  Taffy  had 
constituted  himself  Trilby's  secretary  and 
homme  d'affaires — unknown  to  her,  of 
course.  And  th  is  was  no  sinecure  (though 
he  liked  it) :  putting  aside  the  numerous 
people  he  had  to  see  and  be  interviewed 
by,  there  were  kind  inquiries  and  mes- 
sages of  condolence  and  sympathy  from 
nearly  all  the  crowned  heads  of  Europe, 
through  their  chamberlains;  applications 
for  help  from  unsuccessful  musical  smug- 
glers all  over  the  world  to  the  pre-emi- 
nently successful  one;  beautiful  letters 
from  great  and  famous  people,  musical 
or  otherwise;  disinterested  offers  of  ser- 
vice ;  interested  proposals  for  engage- 
ments when  the  present  trouble  should 
be  over;  beggings  for  an  interview  from 
famous  impresarios,  to  obtain  which  no 
distance  would  be  thought  too  great, 
etc.,  etc.,  etc.  It  was  endless,  in  Eng- 
lish, French,  German,  Italian  —  in  lan- 
guages quite  incomprehensible  (many 
letters  had  to  remain  unanswered).  Taffy 
took  an  almost  malicious  pleasure  in  ex- 
plaining all  this  to  Mrs.  Bagot. 

Then  there  was  a  constant  rolling  of 
carriages  up  to  the  door,  and  a  thunder- 
ing of  Little  Billee's  knocker:  Lord  and 
Lady  Palmerston  wish  to  know — the  Lord 
Chief  Justice  wishes  to  know — the  Dean 
of  Westminster  wishes  to  know — the  Mar- 
chioness of  Westminster  wishes  to  know 
— everybody  wishes  to  know  if  there  is 
any  better  news  of  Madame  Svengali! 

These  were  small  things,  truly;  but 
Mrs.  Bagot  was  a  small  person  from  a 
small  village  in  Devonshire,  and  one 
whose  heart  and  eye  had  hitherto  been 
filled  by  no  larger  image  than  that  of 
Little  Billee;  and  Little  Billee's  fame,  as 
she  now  discovered  for  the  first  time,  did 
not  quite  fill  the  entire  universe. 

And  she  mustn't  be  too  much  blamed 
if  all  these  obvious  signs  of  a  world-wide 
celebrity  impressed  and  even  awed  her  a 
little. 

Madame  Svengali!  Why,  this  was  the 
beautiful  girl  whom  she  remembered  so 
well,  whom  she  had  so  grandly  discarded 
with  a  word,  and  who  had  accepted  her 


conge  so  meekly  in  a  minute;  whom,  in- 
deed, she  had  been  cursing  in  her  heart 
for  years,  because — because  what? 

Poor  Mrs.  Bagot  felt  herself  turn  hot 
and  red  all  over,  and  humbled  herself  to 
the  very  dust,  and  almost  forgot  that  she 
had  been  in  the  right,  after  all,  and  that 
"la  grande  Trilby"  was  certainly  no  fit 
match  for  her  son  ! 

So  she  went  quite  humbly  to  see  Tril- 
by, and  found  a  poor  pathetic  mad  crea- 
ture still  more  humble  than  herself,  who 
still  apologized  for — for  what? 

A  poor  pathetic  mad  creature  who  had 
clean  forgotten  that  she  was  the  greatest 
singer  in  all  the  worlds — one  of  the  great- 
est artists  that  had  ever  lived;  but  who 
remembered  with  shame  and  contrition 
that  she  had  once  taken  the  liberty  of 
yielding  (after  endless  pressure  and  re- 
peated disinterested  refusals  of  her  own, 
and  out  of  sheer  irresistible  affection)  to 
the  passionate  pleadings  of  a  little  ob- 
scure, art  student,  a  mere  boy — no  better 
off  than  herself — just  as  penniless  and  in- 
significant a  nobody;  but — the  son  of 
Mrs.  Bagot. 

All  due  sense  of  proportion  died  out  of 
the  poor  lady  as  she  remembered  and  re- 
alized all  this! 

.  And  then  Trilby's  pathetic  beauty,  so 
touching,  so  winning,  in  its  rapid  decay; 
the  nameless  charm  of  look  and  voice 
and  manner  that  was  her  special  apa- 
nage, and  which  her  malady  and  singu- 
lar madness  had  only  increased;  her 
childlike  simplicity,  her  transparent  for- 
getfulness  of  self— all  these  so  fascinated 
and  entranced  Mrs.  Bagot,  whose  quick 
susceptibility  to  such  impressions  was 
just  as  keen  as  her  son's,  that  she  very 
soon  found  herself  all  but  worshipping 
this  fast-fading  lily — for  so  she  called  her 
in  her  own  mind — quite  forgetting  (or 
affecting  to  forget)  on  what  very  ques- 
tionable soil  the  lily  had  been  reared, 
and  through  what  strange  vicissitudes  of 
evil  and  corruption  it  had  managed  to 
grow  so  tall  and  white  and  fragrant! 

Oh,  strange  compelling  power  of  weak- 
ness and  grace  and  prettiness  combined, 
and  sweet,  sincere,  unconscious  natural 
manners!  not  to  speak  of  world-wide 
fame ! 

For  Mrs.  Bagot  was  just  a  shrewd  little 
conventional  British  country  matron  of 
the  good  upper  middle-class  type,  bristling 
all  over  with  provincial  proprieties  and 
respectabilities,  a  philistine  of  the  philis- 


TRILBY. 


355 


tines,  in  spite  of  her  artistic  instincts; 
one  who  for  years  had  (rather  unjustly) 
thought  of  Trilby  as  a  wanton  and  peril- 
ous siren,  an  unchaste  and  unprincipled 
and  most  dangerous  daughter  of  Heth, 
and  the  special  enemy  of  her  house. 

And  here  she  was— like  all  the  rest  of 
us  monads  and  nomads  and  bohemians — 
just  sitting  at  Trilby's  feet.  ...  "A  wash- 
erwoman! a  figure  model!  and  Heaven 
knows  what  besides!"  and  she  had  never 
even  heard  her  sing! 

It  was  truly  comical  to  see  and  hear! 

Mrs.  Bagot  did  not  go  back  to  Devon- 
shire. She  remained  in  Fitzroy  Square, 
at  her  son's,  and  spent  most  of  her  time 
with  Trilby,  doing  and  devising  all  kinds 
of  things  to  distract  and  amuse  her,  and 
lead  her  thoughts  gently  to  heaven,  and 
soften  for  her  the  coming  end  of  all. 

Trilby  had  a  way  of  saying,  and  es- 
pecially of  looking,  "Thank  you"  that 
made  one  wish  to  do  as  many  things  for 
her  as  one  could,  if  only  to  make  her  say 
and  look  it  again. 

And  she  had  retained  much  of  her  old, 
quaint,  and  amusing  manner  of  telling 
things,  and  had  much  to  tell  still  left  of 
her  wandering  life,  although  there  were 
so  many  strange  lapses  in  her  powers  of 
memory — gaps — which,  if  they  could  only 
have  been  tilled  up,  would  have  been  full 
of  such  surpassing  interest! 

Then  she  was  never  tired  of  talking 
and  hearing  of  Little  Billee;  and  that 
was  a  subject  of  which  Mrs.  Bagot  could 
never  tire  either! 

Then  there  were  the  recollections  of 
her  childhood.  One  day,  in  a  drawer, 
Mrs.  Bagot  came  upon  a  faded  daguerre- 
otype of  a  woman  in  a  Tarn  o'  Shanter, 
with  a  face  so  sweet  and  beautiful  and 
saintlike  that  it  almost  took  her  breath 
away.     It  was  Trilby's  mother. 

"Who  and  what  was  your  mother, 
Trilby?" 

"Ah,  poor  mamma  !"  said  Trilby,  and 
she  looked  at  the  portrait  a  long  time. 
"Ah,  she  was  ever  so  much  prettier  than 
that!  Mamma  was  once  a  demoiselle  de 
comptoir — that's  a  barmaid,  you  know — 
at  the  Montagnards  Ecossais,  in  the  Rue 
du  Paradis  Poissonniere — a  place  where 
men  used  to  drink  and  smoke  without  sit- 
ting down.  That  was  unfortunate,  wasn't 
it? 

"  Papa  loved  her  with  all  his  heart,  al- 
though, of  course,  she  wasn't  his  equal. 


They   were  married  at  the  Embassy,  in 
the  Rue  du  Faubourg  St.-Honore. 

"Her  parents  weren't  married  at  all. 
Her  mother  was  the  daughter  of  a  boat- 
man on  Loch  Ness,  near  a  place  called 
Drumnadrockit;  but  her  father  was  the 
Honorable  Colonel  Desmond.  He  was 
related  to  all  sorts  of  great  people  in  Eng- 
land and  Ireland.     He  behaved  very  bad- 


AH,  POOR   MAMMA!    SHE    WAS   EVER   SO 
MUCH   PRETTIER   THAN   THAT!" 


ly  to  my  grandmother  and  to  poor  mam- 
ma— his  own  daughter  !  deserted  them 
both !  Not  very  honorable  of  him,  was 
it!     And  that's  all  I  know  about  him." 

And  then  she  went  on  to  tell  of  the 
home  in  Paris  that  might  have  been  so 
happy  but  for  her  father's  passion  for 
drink;  of  her  parents'  deaths,  and  lit- 
tle Jeannot,  and  so  forth.  And  Mrs. 
Bagot  was  much  moved  and  interested 
by  these  na'ive  revelations,  which  account- 
ed in  a  measure  for  so  much  that  seemed 
unaccountable  in  this  extraordinary  wo- 
man ;  who  thus  turned  out  to  be  a  kind 
of  cousin  to  no  less  a  person  than  the 
famous  Duchess  of  Towers. 

With  what  joy  would  that  ever  kind 
and  gracious  lady  have  taken  poor  Trilby 
to  her  bosom  had  she  only  known  !  She 
had  once  been  all  the  way  from  Paris  to 
Vienna  merely  to  hear  her  sing.  But, 
unfortunately,  the  Svengalis  had  just  left 
for  St.  Petersburg,  and  she  had  her  long 
journey  for  nothing ! 


356 


HARPER'S    NEW    MONTHLY   MAGAZINE. 


Mrs.  Bagot  brought  her  many  good 
books,  and  read  them  to  her — Dr.  Cum- 
mings  on  the  approaching  end  of  the 
world,  and  other  works  of  a  like  com- 
forting tendency  for  those  who  are  just 
about  to  leave  it ;  the  Pilgrim's  Progress, 
sweet  little  tracts,  and  what  not. 

Trilby  was  so  grateful  that  she  listened 
with  much  patient  attention.  Only  now 
and  then  a  faint  gleam  of  amusement 
would  steal  over  her  face,  and  her  lips 
would  almost  form  themselves  to  ejacu- 
late, "  Oh,  maie,  aie!" 

Then  Mrs.  Bagot,  as  a  reward  for  such 
winning  docility,  would  read  her  David 
Copperfield,  and  that  was  heavenly  in- 
deed! 

But  the  best  of  all  was  for  Trilby  to 
look  over  John  Leech's  pictures  of  Life 
and  Character,  just  out.  She  had  never 
seen  any  drawings  of  Leech  before,  ex- 
cept now  and  then  in  an  occasional 
Punch  that  turned  up  in  the  studio  in 
Paris.  And  they  never  palled  upon  her, 
and  taught  her  more  of  the  aspect  of 
English  life  (the  life  she  loved)  than  any 
book  she  had  ever  read.  She  laughed 
and  laughed;  and  it  was  almost  as  sweet 
to  listen  to  as  if  she  were  vocalizing  the 
quick  part  in  Chopin's  Impromptu. 

One  day  she  said,  her  lips  trembling: 
"I  can't  make  out  why  you're  so  won- 
derfully kind  to  me,  Mrs.  Bagot.  I  hope 
you  have  not  forgotten  who  and  what  I 
am,  and  what  my  story  is.  I  hope  you 
haven't  forgotten  that  I'm  not  a  respect- 
able woman?" 

i4  Oh,  my  dear  child— don't  ask  me  .  .  . 
I  only  know  that  you  are  you! ....  and 
I  am  I !  and  that  is  enough  for  me  .... 
you're  my  poor  gentle  patient  suffering 
daughter,  whatever  else  you  are — more 
sinned  against  than  sinning,  I  feel  sure! 
But  there ....  I've  misjudged  you  so, 
and  been  so  unjust,  that  I  would  give 
worlds  to  make  you  some  amends  .... 
besides,  I  should  be  just  as  fond  of  you 
if  you'd  committed  a  murder,  I  really  be- 
lieve— you're  so  strange!  you're  irresisti- 
ble! Did  you  ever,  in  all  your  life,  meet 
anybody  that  ivasn't  fond  of  you?" 

Trilby's  eyes  moistened  with  tender  plea- 
sure at  such  a  pretty  compliment.  Then, 
after  a  few  minutes'  thought,  she  said, 
with  engaging  candor  and  quite  simply: 
"No,  I  can't  say  I  ever  did,  that  I  can 
think  of  just  now.  But  I've  forgotten 
such  lots  of  people!" 


One  day  Mrs.  Bagot  told  Trilby  that 
her  brother-in-law,  Mr.  Thomas  Bagot, 
would  much  like  to  come  and  talk  to  her. 

"Was  that  the  gentleman  who  came- 
with  you  to  the  studio  in  Paris?" 

"Yes." 

"Why,  he's  a  clergyman,  isn't  he? 
What  does  he  want  to  come  and  talk  to 
me  about?" 

"Ah!  my  dear  child...."  said  Mrs. 
Bagot,  her  eyes  filling. 

Trilby  was  thoughtful  for  a  while,  and 
then  said:  "I'm  going  to  die,  I  suppose. 
Oh  yes!  oh  yes!  There's  no  mistake 
about  that !" 

"Dear  Trilby,  we  are  all  in  the  hands- 
of  an  Almighty  Merciful  God !"  And  the 
tears  rolled  down  Mrs.  Bagot's  cheeks. 

After  a  long  pause,  during  which  she 
gazed  out  of  window,  Trilby  said,  in  an 
abstracted  kind  of  way,  as  though  she- 
were  talking  to  herself:  "  Apres  tout, 
c'est  pas  deja  si  raide,  de  claquer!  J'en 
ai  tant  vus,  qui  ont  passe  par  la!  Au 
bout  du  fosse  la  culbute,  ma  foi!" 

"What  are  you  saying  to  yourself  in 
French,  Trilby?  Your  French  is  so  diffi- 
cult to  understand!" 

"Oh,  I  beg  your  pardon !  I  was  think- 
ing it's  not  so  very  difficult  to  .die,  after 
all!  I've  seen  such  lots  of  people  do  it. 
I've  nursed  them,  you  know — papa  and 
mamma  and  Jeannot,  and  Angele  Boisse's 
mother-in-law,  and  a  poor  casseur  de 
pierres,  Colin  Maigret,  who  lived  in  the 
Impasse  des  Taupes  St. -Germain.  He'd 
been  run  over  by  an  omnibus  in  the  Rue 
Vaugirard,  and  had  to  have  both  his  legs 
cut  off  just  above  the  knee.  They  none 
of  them  seemed  to  mind  dying  a  bit. 
They  weren't  a  bit  afraid  !     I'm  not! 

"Poor  people  don't  think  much  of 
death.  Rich  people  shouldn't  either.  They 
should  be  taught  when  they're  quite  young* 
to  laugh  at  it  and  despise  it,  like  the  Chi- 
nese. The  Chinese  die  of  laughing  just 
as  their  heads  are  being  cut  off,  and  cheat 
the  executioner!  It's  all  in  the  day's 
work,  and  we're  all  in  the  same  boat — so 
who's  afraid !" 

"  Dying  is  not  all,  my  poor  child !  Are 
you  prepared  to  meet  your  Maker  face  to 
face?  Have  you  ever  thought  about 
God,  and  the  possible  wrath  to  come  if 
you  should  die  unrepentant?" 

"Oh,  but  I  sha'n't!  I've  been  repent- 
ing all  my  life!  Besides,  there'll  be  no 
wrath  for  any  of  us — not  even  the  worst! 
II  y  aura  amnistie  generate !    Papa  told 


TO    SING   LIKE   THAT   IS   TO    PRAY!" 


me  so,  and  he'd  been  a  clergyman,  like 
Mr.  Thomas  Bagot.  I  often  think  about 
God.  I'm  very  fond  of  Him.  One  must 
have  something  perfect  to  look  up  to  and 
be  fond  of — even  if  it's  only  an  idea! 

"Though  some  people  don't  even  be- 
lieve He  exists!  Le  pere  Martin  didn't 
— but,  of  course,  lie  was  only  a  chiffon- 
nier,  and  doesn't  count. 

"One  day,  though,  Durien  the  sculp- 
tor, who's  very  clever,  and  a  very  good 
fellow  indeed,  said: 

"'Vois  tu,  Trilby  —  I'm  very  much 
afraid  He  doesn't  really  exist,  le  bon 
Dieu!  most  unfortunately  for  me,  for  I 
adore  Him !  I  never  do  a  piece  of  work 
without  thinking  how  nice  it  would  be  if 
I  could  only  please  Him  with  it!' 

"And  I've  often  thought,  myself,  how 
heavenly  it  must  be  to  be  able  to  paint, 
or  sculpt,  or  make  music,  or  write  beauti- 
ful poetry,  for  that  very  reason ! 

"  Why,  once  on  a  very  hot  afternoon, 
we  were  sitting,  a  lot  of  us,  in  the  court- 
yard outside  la  mere  Martin's  shop, 
drinking  coffee  with  an  old  Invalide 
called  Bastide  Lendormi,  one  of  the 
Vieille  Garde,  who'd  only  got  one  leg 
and  one  arm  and  one  eye,  and  everybody 
was  very  fond  of  him.  Well,  a  model 
called  Mimi  la  Salope  came  out  of  the 
Mont-de-piete  opposite,  and  Pere  Martin 


called  out  to  her  to  come  and  sit  down, 
and  gave  her  a  cup  of  coffee,  and  asked 
her  to  sing. 

"She  sang  a  song  of  Beranger's  about 
Napoleon  the  Great,  in  which  it  says: 

'  Parlez-nous  de  lui,  grand'mere  ! 
Grand'mere,  parlez-nous  de  lui!' 

I  suppose  she  sang  it  very  well,  for  it 
made  old  Bastide  Lendormi  cry  ;  and 
when  Pere  Martin  blagued  him  about  it, 
he  said, 

"  'Cest  egal,  voyez  vous! — to  sing  like 
that  is  to  pray  /' 

"And  then  I  thought  how  lovely  it 
would  be  if  i"  could  only  sing  like  Mimi 
la  Salope,  and  I've  thought  so  ever  since 
— just  to  pray  /" 

"What!  Trilby?  if  you  could  only 
sing  like —  Oh,  but  never  mind,  I  for- 
got! Tell  me,  Trilby — do  you  ever  pray 
to  Him,  as  other  people  pray?" 

"Pray  to  Him ?  Well,  no — not  often — 
not  in  words,  and  on  my  knees,  and  with, 
my  hands  together,  you  know!  Think- 
ing's praying,  very  often — don't  you 
think  so?  And  so's  being  sorry  and 
ashamed  when  one's  done  a  mean  thing, 
and  glad  when  one's  resisted  a  tempta- 
tion, and  grateful  when  it's  a  fine  day 
and  one's  enjoying  one's  self  without 
hurting  any  one  else!     What  "is  it  but 


358 


HARPER'S    NEW    MONTHLY    MAGAZINE. 


praying  when  you  try  and  bear  up  after 
losing  all  you  cared  to  live  for?  And 
very  good  praying  too!  There  can  be 
prayers  without  words  just  as  well  as 
songs,  I  suppose;  and  Svengali  used  to 
say  that  songs  without  words  are  the 
best! 

"And  then  it  seems  mean  to  be  always 
asking  for  things.  Besides,  you  don't 
get  them  any  the  faster  that  way,  and 
that  shows! 

"La  mere  Martin  used  to  be  always 
praying.  And  Pere  Martin  used  always 
to  laugh  at  her ;  yet  he  always  seemed  to 
get  the  things  he  wanted  oftenest! 

' '  I  prayed  once,  very  hard  indeed !  I 
prayed  for  Jeannot  not  to  die !" 

"Well — but  how  do  you  repent,  Tril- 
by, if  you  do  not  humble  yourself,  and 
pray  for  forgiveness  on  your  knees?" 

"Oh,  well — I  don't  exactly  know !  Look 
here,  Mrs.  Bagot,  I'll  tell  you  the  lowest 
and  meanest  thing  I  ever  did.  ..." 

(Mrs.  Bagot  felt  a  little  nervous.) 

"I'd  promised  to  take  Jeannot  on 
Palm-Sunday  to  St. -Philippe  du  Roule,  to 
hear  l'abbe  Bergamot.  But  Durien  (that's 
the  sculptor,  you  know)  asked  me  to  go 
with  him  to  St.  -  Germain,  where  there 
was  a  fair,  or  something,  and  with  Ma- 
thieu,  who  was  a  student  in  law,  and  a 
certain  Victorine  Letellier.  And  I  went 
on  Sunday  morning  to  tell  Jeannot  that 
I  couldn't  take  him. 

"He  cried  so  dreadfully  that  I  thought 
I'd  give  up  the  others  and  take  him  to 
St. -Philippe  as  I'd  promised.  But  then 
Durien  and  Mathieu  and  Victorine  drove 
up  and  Waited  outside,  and  so  I  didn't 
take  him  and  went  with  them,  and  I 
didn't  enjoy  anything  all  day,  and  was 
miserable. 

"They  were  in  an  open  carriage  with 
two  horses;  it  was  Mathieu's  treat;  and 
Jeannot  might  have  ridden  on  the  box 
by  the  coachman,  without  being  in  any- 
body's way.  But  I  was  afraid  they  didn't 
want  him,  as  they  didn't  say  anything, 
and  so  I  didn't  dare  ask — and  Jeannot 
saw  us  drive  away,  and  I  couldn't  look 
back  at  him!  And  the  worst  of  it  is  that 
when  we  were  half-way  to  St. -Germain, 
Durien  said,  *  What  a  pity  you  didn't 
bring  Jeannot!'  and  they  were  all  sorry 
I  hadn't. 

"It  was  six  or  seven  years  ago,  and  I 
really  believe  I've  thought  of  it  almost 
every  day,  and  sometimes  in  the  middle 
of  the  night! 


"All!  and  when  Jeannot  was  dying! 
and  when  he  was  dead — the  remembrance 
of  that  Palm-Sunday ! 

"And  if  thaVs  not  repenting,  I  don't 
know  what  is!" 

"Oh,  Trilby,  what  nonsense!  thafs 
nothing;  good  heavens!  —  putting  off  a 
small  child!  I'm  thinking  of  far  wTorse 
things — when  you  were  in  the  quartier 
latin,  you  know — sitting  to  painters  and 
sculptors.  .  .  .  Surely,  so  attractive  as 
you  are.  ..." 

11  Oh  yes.  ...  I  know  what  you  mean 
— it  was  horrid,  and  I  wras  frightfully 
ashamed  of  myself;  and  it  wasn't  amus- 
ing a  bit!  nothing  was,  till  I  met  your 
son  and  Taffy  and  dear  Sandy  McAllis- 
ter! But  then  it  wasn't  deceiving  or 
disappointing  anybody,  or  hurting  their 
feelings — it  was  only  hurting  myself! 

"Besides,  all  that  sort  of  thing,  in  wo- 
men, is  punished  severely  enough  down 
here,  God  knows!  unless  one's  a  Russian 
empress  like  Catherine  the  Great,  or  a 
grande  dame  like  lots  of  them,  or  a  great 
genius  like  Madame  Rachel  or  George 
Sand! 

"Why,  if  it  hadn't  been  for  that,  and 
sitting  for  the  figure,  I  should  have  felt 
myself  good  enough  to  marry  your  son, 
although  I  was  only  a  blanchisseuse  de 
fin — you've  said  so  yourself! 

"And  I  should  have  made  him  a  good 
wife — of  that  I  feel  sure.  He  wanted  to 
live  all  his  life  at  Barbizon,  and  paint, 
you  know;  and  didn't  care  for  society  in 
the  least.  Anyhow  I  should  have  been 
equal  to  such  a  life  as  that !  Lots  of  their 
wives  are  blanchisseuses  over  there,  or 
people  of  that  sort;  and  they  get  on  very 
well  indeed,  and  nobody  troubles  about 
it! 

"  So  I  think  I've  been  pretty  well  pun- 
ished—richly as  I've  deserved  to!" 

1 '  Trilby,  have  you  ever  been  con- 
firmed ?" 

"I  forget.     I  fancy  not!" 

' '  Oh  dear,  oh  dear !  And  do  you  know 
about  our  blessed  Saviour,  and  the  Atone- 
ment, and  the  Incarnation,  and  the  Resur- 
rection .  .  .  ." 

"Oh  yes — I  used  to,  at  least.  I  used 
to  have  to  learn  the  Catechism  on  Sun- 
days— mamma  made  me.  Whatever  her 
faults  and  mistakes  were,  poor  mamma 
was  always  very  particular  about  that! 
It  all  seemed  very  complicated.  But 
papa  told  me  not  to  bother  too  much 
about  it,  but  to  be  good.     He  said  that 


TRILBY. 


359 


God  would  make  it  all  right  for  us 
somehow,  in  the  end — all  of  us.  And 
that  seems  sensible,  doesrit  it? 

"He  told  me  to  be  good,  and  not 
to  mind  what  priests  and  clergymen 
tell  us.  He'd  been  a  clergyman  him- 
self, and  knew  all  about  it,  he  said. 

"  I  haven't  been  very  good5— there's 
not  much  doubt  about  that,  I'm  afraid ! 
But  God  knows  I've  repented  often 
enough  and  sore  enough;  I  do  now! 
But  I'm  rather  glad  to  die,  I  think; 
and  not  a  bit  afraid — not  a  scrap!  I 
believe  in  poor  papa,  though  he  ivas 
so  unfortunate !  He  was  the  cleverest 
man  I  ever  knew,  and  the  best — ex- 
cept Taffy  and  the  Laird  and  your 
dear  son ! 

"There'll  be  no  hell  for  any  of  us — 
he  told  me  so — except  what  we  make 
for  ourselves  and  each  other  down 
here ;  and  that's  bad  enough  for  any- 
thing. He  told  me  that  he  was  re- 
sponsible for  me — he  often  said  so — 
and  that  mamma  was  too,  and  his 
parents  for  him,  and  his  grandfathers 
and  grandmothers  for  them,  and  so 
on  up  to  Noah  and  ever  so  far  beyond, 
and  God  for  us  all ! 

"  He  told  me  always  to  think  of  oth- 
er people  before  myself,  as  Taffy  does, 
and  your  son ;  and  never  to  tell  lies  or  be 
afraid,  and  keep  away  from  drink,  and  I 
should  be  all  right.  But  I've  sometimes 
been  all  wrong,  all  the  same  ;  and  it 
wasn't  papa's  fault,  but  poor  mamma's 
and  mine;  and  I've  known  it,  and  been 
miserable  at  the  time,  and  after!  and  I'm 
sure  to  be  forgiven — perfectly  certain— 
and  so  will  everybody  else,  even  the 
wickedest  that  ever  lived!  Why,  just 
give  them  sense  enough  in  the  next  world 
to  understand  all  their  wickedness  in  this, 
and  that  '11  punish  them  enough  for  any- 
thing, I  think!  That's  simple  enough, 
isn't  it?  Besides,  there  may  be  no  next 
world — that's  on  the  cards  too,  you  know ! 
—and  that  will  be  simpler  still ! 

"Not  all  the  clergymen  in  all  the 
world,  not  even  the  Pope  of  Rome,  will 
ever  make  me  doubt  papa,  or  believe  in 
any  punishment  after  what  we've  all  got 
to  go  through  here !    Ce  serait  trop  bete ! 

"So  that  if  you  don't  want  me  to  very 
much,  and  he  won't  think  it  unkind,  I'd 
rather  not  talk  to  Mr. Thomas  Bagot  about 
it.  I'd  rather  talk  to  Taffy  if  I  must. 
He's  very  clever,  Taffy,  though  he  doesn't 
often  say  such  clever  things  as  your  son 


THE   REMEMBRANCE    OF   THAT   PALM-SUNDAY !" 


does,  or  paint  nearly  so  well,  and  I'm  sure 
he'll  think  papa  was  right." 

And  as  a  matter  of  fact  the  good  Taffy, 
in  his  opinion  on  this  solemn  subject, was 
found  to  be  at  one  with  the  late  Reverend 
Patrick  Michael  O'Ferrall— and  so  was 
the  Laird — and  so  (to  his  mother's  shocked 
and  pained  surprise)  was  Little  Billee. 

And  so  were  Sir  Oliver  Calthorpe  and 
Sir  Jacob  Wilcox  and  Doctor  Thorne,  and 
Sibley  and  Lorrimer  and  the  Greek ! 

And  so — in  after-years,  when  grief  had 
well  pierced  and  torn  and  riddled  her 
through  and  through,  and  time  and  age 
had  healed  the  wounds,  and  nothing  re- 
mained but  the  consciousness  of  great 
inward  scars  of  recollection  to  remind 
her  how  deep  and  jagged  and  wide  the 
wounds  had  once  been— did  Mrs.  Bagot 
herself ! 

Late  on  one  memorable  Saturday  after- 
noon, just  as  it  was  getting  dusk  in  Char- 
lotte Street,  Trilby,  in  her  pretty  blue 
dressing-gown,  lay  on  the  sofa  by  the 
fire— her  head  well  propped,  her  knees 
drawn  up— looking  very  placid  and  con- 
tent. 


360 


HARPER'S    NEW    MONTHLY    MAGAZINE. 


She  had  spent  the  early  part  of  the 
day  dictating  her  will  to  the  conscientious 
Taffy. 

It  was  a  simple  document,  although 
she  was  not  without  many  valuable  trin- 
kets to  leave:  quite  a  fortune!  Souve- 
nirs from  many  men  and  women  she  had 
charmed  by  her  singing,  from  royalties 
downwards. 

She  had  been  looking  them  over  with 
the  faithful  Marta,  to  whom  she  had  al- 
ways thought  they  belonged.  It  was  ex- 
plained to  her  that  they  were  gifts  of 
Svengali's,  since  she  did  not  remember 
when  and  where  and  by  whom  they  were 
presented  to  her,  except  a  few  that  Sven- 
gali  had  given  her  himself,  with  many 
passionate  expressions  of  his  love,  which 
seems  to  have  been  deep  and  constant  and 
sincere — none  the  less  so,  perhaps,  that 
she  could  never  return  it! 

She  had  left  the  bulk  of  these  to  the 
faithful  Marta. 

But  to  each  of  the  trois  Angliches  she 
had  bequeathed  a  beautiful  ring,  which 
was  to  be  worn  by  their  brides  if  they 
ever  married,  and  the  brides  didn't  object. 

To  Mrs.  Bagot  she  left  a  pearl  necklace ; 
to  Miss  Bagot  her  gold  coronet  of  stars; 
and  pretty  (and  most  costly)  gifts  to  each 
of  the  three  doctors  who  had  attended 
her  and  been  so  assiduous  in  their  care; 
and  who,  as  she  was  told,  would  make  no 
charge  for  attending  on  Madame  Svenga- 
li.  And  studs  and  scarf-pins  to  Sibley, 
Lorrimer,  the  Greek,  Dodor,  and  Zouzou; 
and  to  Carnegie  a  little  German  -  silver 
vinaigrette  which  had  once  belonged  to 
Lord  Witlow ;  and  pretty  souvenirs  to  the 
Vinards,  An  gel e  Boisse,  and  others. 

And  she  left  a  magnificent  gold  watch 
and  chain  to  Gecko,  with  a  most  affec- 
tionate letter  and  a  hundred  pounds. 

She  had  taken  great  interest  in  discuss- 
ing with  Taffy  the  particular  kind  of 
trinket  which  would  best  suit  the  idio- 
syncrasy of  each  particular  legatee,  and 
derived  great  comfort  from  the  business- 
like and  sympathetic  conscientiousness 
with  which  the  good  Taffy  entered  upon 
all  these  minutiae— he  was  so  solemn  and 
serious  about  it,  and  took  such  pains.  She 
little  guessed  how  his  dumb  but  deeply 
feeling  heart  was  harrowed ! 

This  document  had  been  duly  signed 
and  witnessed,  and  intrusted  to  his  care; 
and  Trilby  lay  tranquil  and  happy,  and 
with  a  sense  that  nothing  remained  for 
her  but  to  enjoy  the  fleeting  hour,  and 


make  the  most  of  each  precious  moment 
as  it  went  by. 

She  was  quite  without  pain  of  either 
mind  or  body,  and  surrounded  by  the 
people  she  adored — Taffy,  the  Laird,  and 
Little  Billee,  and  Mrs.  Bagot,  and  Marta, 
who  sat  knitting  in  a  corner  with  her 
black  mittens  on,  and  her  brass  spectacles. 

She  listened  to  the  chat  and  joined  in 
it,  laughing  as  usual;  "love  in  her  eyes 
sat  playing "  as  she  looked  from  one  to 
another,  for  she  loved  them  all  beyond 
expression.  "Love  on  her  lips  was  stray- 
ing, and  warbling  in  her  breath,"  when- 
ever she  spoke;  and  her  weakened  voice 
was  still  larger,  fuller,  softer  than  any 
other  voice  in  the  room,  in  the  world — of 
another  kind,  from  another  sphere. 

A  cart  drove  up,  there  wTas  a  ring  at 
the  door,  and  presently  a  wooden  pack- 
ing-case was  brought  into  the  room. 

At  Trilby's  request  it  was  opened,  and 
found  to  contain  a  large  photograph, 
framed  and  glazed,  of  Svengali,  in  the 
military  uniform  of  his  own  Hungarian 
band,  and  looking  straight  out  of  the  pic- 
ture, straight  at  you.  He  was  standing 
by  his  desk,  with  his  left  hand  turning 
over  a  leaf  of  music, and  waving  his  baton 
with  his  right.  It  was  a  splendid  photo- 
graph, by  a  Viennese  photographer,  and 
a  most  speaking  likeness;  and  Svengali 
looked  truly  fine — all  made  up  of  impor- 
tance and  authority,  and  his  big  black 
eyes  were  full  of  stern  command. 

Marta  trembled  as  she  looked.  It  was 
handed  to  Trilby,  who  exclaimed  in  sur- 
prise. She  had  never  seen  it.  She  had 
no  photograph  of  him,  and  had  never  pos- 
sessed one. 

No  message  of  any  kind,  no  letter  of 
explanation,  accompanied  this  unexpected 
present,  which,  from  the  post-marks  on 
the  case,  seemed  to  have  travelled  all  over 
Europe  to  London,  out  of  some  remote 
province  in  eastern  Russia  —  out  of  the 
mysterious  East!  The  poisonous  East — 
birthplace  and  home  of  an  ill  wind  that 
blows  nobody  good. 

Trilby  laid  it  against  her  knees,  and 
lay  gazing  at  it  with  close  attention  for 
a  long  time,  making  a  casual  remark 
now  and  then,  as,  "He  was  very  hand- 
some, I  think";  or:  "That  uniform  be- 
comes him  very  well.  Why  has  he  got 
it  on,  I  wonder?" 

The  others  went  on  talking,  and  Mrs. 
Bagot  made  coffee. 

Presently  Mrs.  Bagot  took  a  cup  of  cof- 


TRILBY. 


361 


fee  to  Trilby,  and  found  her  still  staring 
intently  at  the  portrait,  but  with  her  eyes 
dilated,  and  quite  a  strange  light  in  them. 

"  Trilby,  Trilby,  your  coffee !  What  is 
the  matter,  Trilby?" 

Trilby  was  smiling,  with  fixed  eyes,  and 
made  no  answer. 

The  others  got  up  and  gathered  round 
her  in  some  alarm.     Marta  seemed  terror- 


from  side  to  side,  her  eyes  intent  on  Sven- 
gali's  in  the  portrait,  and  suddenly  she 
began  to  sing  Chopin's  Impromptu  in  A 
flat. 

She  hardly  seemed  to  breathe  as  the 
notes  came  pouring  out,  without  words — 
mere  vocalizing.  It  was  as  if  breath  were 
unnecessary  for  so  little  voice  as  she  was 
using,  though  there  was  enough  of  it  to 


FOR   GECKO. 


stricken,  and  wished  to  snatch  the  photo- 
graph away,  but  was  prevented  from  do- 
ing so;  one  didn't  know  what  the  conse- 
quences might  be. 

Taffy  rang  the  bell,  and  sent  a  servant 
for  Dr.  Thorne,  who  lived  close  by,  in 
Fitzroy  Square. 

Presently  Trilby  began  to  speak,  quite 
softly,  in  French:  "Encore  une  fois  ? 
bon!  je  veux  bien!  avec  la  voix  blanche 
alors,  n'est-ce  pas?  et  puis  foncer  au  mi- 
lieu. Et  pas  trop  vite  en  commengant! 
Battez  bien  la  mesure,  Svengali — que  je 
puisse  bien  voir  —  car  il  fait  deja  nuit! 
c'est  9a!  Allons,  Gecko — donne-moi  le 
ton!" 

Then  she  smiled,  and  seemed  to  beat 
time  softly  by  moving  her  head  a  little 


fill  the  room — to  fill  the  house — to  drown 
her  small  audience  in  holy,  heavenly 
sweetness. 

She  was  a  consummate  mistress  of  her 
art.  How  that  could  be  seen  !  And  also 
how  splendid  had  been  her  training!  It 
all  seemed  as  easy  to  her  as  opening  and 
shutting  her  eyes,  and  yet  how  utterly 
impossible  to  anybody  else! 

Between  wonder,  enchantment,  and 
alarm  they  were  frozen  to  statues,  all  ex- 
cept Marta,  who  ran  out  of  the  room,  cry- 
ing: "Gott  in  Himmel — wieder  zuriick! 
wieder  zuriick!" 

She  sang  it  just  as  she  had  sung  it  at 
the  Salle  des  Bashibazoucks,  only  it  sound- 
ed still  more  ineffably  seductive,  as  she 
was  using  less  voice— using  the  essence  of 


362 


HARPER'S    NEW    MONTHLY    MAGAZINE. 


her  voice,  in  fact — the  pure  spirit,  the  very 
cream  of  it. 

There  can  be  little  doubt  that  these  four 
watchers  by  that  enchanted  couch  were 
listening"  to  not  only  the  most  divinely 
beautiful,  but  also  the  most  astounding- 
feat  of  musical  utterance  ever  heard  out 
of  a  human  throat. 

The  usual  effect  was  produced.  Tears 
were  streaming  down  the  cheeks  of  Mrs. 
Bagot  and*  Little  Billee.  Tears  were  in 
the  Laird's  eyes ;  a  tear  on  one  of  Taffy's 
whiskers — tears  of  sheer  delight. 

When  she  came  back  to  the  quick  move- 
ment again,  after  the  adagio,  her  voice 
grew  louder  and  shriller,  and  sweet  with 
a  sweetness  not  of  this  earth;  and  went 
on  increasing  in  volume  as  she  quickened 
the  time,  nearing  the  end;  and  then  came 
the  dying  away  into  all  but  nothing — a 
mere  melodic  breath;  and  then  the  little 
soft  chromatic  ascending  rocket,  up  to  E 
in  alt,  the  last  parting  caress,  which  Sven- 
gali  had  introduced  as  a  finale,  for  it  does 
not  exist  in  the  piano  score. 

When  it  was  over,  she  said :  "  Qa  y  est- 
il,  cette  fois,  Svengali?  Ah !  tant  mieux,  a 
la  fin !  c'est  pas  malheureux !  Et  mainte- 
nant,mon  a,mi,je  suisfatiguee—bonsoir!" 

Her  head  fell  back  on  the  pillow,  and 
she  lay  fast  asleep. 

Mrs.  Bagot  took  the  portrait  away  gen- 
tly. Little  Billee  knelt  down  and  held 
Trilby's  hand  in  his  and  felt  for  her  pulse, 
and  could  not  find  it. 

He  said,  "Trilby!  Trilby!"  and  put  his 
ear  to  her  mouth  to  hear  her  breathe. 
Her  breath  was  inaudible. 

But  soon  she  folded  her  hands  across 
her  breast,  and  uttered  a  little  short  sigh, 
and  in  a  weak  voice  said:  "  Svengali.  .  .  . 
Svengali.  .  .  .  Svengali! .  ." 

They  remained  in  silence  round  her  for 
several  minutes,  terror-stricken. 

The  doctor  came;  he  put  his  hand  to 
her  heart,  his  ear  to  her  lips.  He  turned 
up  one  of  her  eyelids  and  looked  at  her 
eye.  And  then,  his  voice  quivering  with 
strong  emotion,  he  stood  up  and  said, 
"  Madame  Svengali's  trials  and  sufferings 
are  all  over!" 

"Oh!  good  God!  is  she  deadf"  cried 
Mrs.  Bagot. 

"  Yes,  Mrs.  Bagot.  She  has  been  dead 
several  minutes — perhaps  a  quarter  of  an 
hour." 

VINGT   ANS  APRfcS. 

Porthos-Athos,  alias  Taffy  Wynne,  is 
sitting  to  breakfast  (opposite  his  wife)  at 


a  little  table  in  the  court-yard  of  that 
huge  caravanserai  on  the  Boulevard  des 
Italiens,  Paris,  where  he  had  sat  more 
than  twenty  years  ago  with  the  Laird 
and  Little  Billee;  where,  in  fact,  he  had 
pulled  Svengali's  nose. 

Little  is  changed  in  the  aspect  of  the 
place:  the  same  cosmopolite  company, 
with  more  of  the  American  element,  per- 
haps; the  same  arrivals  and  departures 
in  railway  omnibuses,  cabs,  hired  car- 
riages; and,  to  welcome  the  coming  and 
speed  the  parting  guests,  just  such  an- 
other colossal  and  beautiful  old  man  in 
velvet  and  knee-breeches  and  silk  stock- 
ings as  of  yore,  with  probably  the  very 
same  gold  chain.  Where  do  they  breed 
these  magnificent  old  Frenchmen  ?  In 
Germany,  perhaps,  "  where  all  the  good 
big  waiters  come  from !" 

And  also  the  same  fine  weather.  It  is 
always  fine  weather  in  the  court-yard  of 
the  Grand  Hotel.  As  the  Laird  would 
say, they  manage  these  things  better  there ! 

Taffy  wears  a  short  beard,  which  is  turn- 
ing gray.  His  kind  blue  eye  is  no  longer 
choleric,  but  mild  and  friendly— as  frank 
as  ever;  and  full  of  humorous  patience. 
He  has  grown  stouter ;  he  is  very  big  in- 
deed, in  all  three  dimensions,  but  the  sym- 
metry and  the  gainliness  of  the  athlete 
belong  to  him  still  in  movement  and  re- 
pose; and  his  clothes  fit  him  beautifully, 
though  they  are  not  new,  and  show  care- 
ful beating  and  brushing  and  ironing, 
and  even  a  touch  of  fine-drawing  here 
and  there. 

What  a  magnificent  old  man  he  will 
make  some  day,  should  the  Grand  Hotel 
ever  run  short  of  them!  He  looks  as  if 
he  could  be  trusted  down  to  the  ground — 
in  all  things,  little  or  big;  as  if  his  word 
were  as  good  as  his  bond,  and  even  bet- 
ter; his  wink  as  good  as  his  word,  his  nod 
as  good  as  his  wink;  and,  in  truth,  as  he 
looks,  so  he  is. 

The  most  cynical  disbeliever  in  "the 
grand  old  name  of  gentleman,"  and  its 
virtues  as  a  noun  of  definition,  would 
almost  be  justified  in  quite  dogmatically 
asserting  at  sight,  and  without  even  be- 
ing introduced,  that,  at  all  events,  Taffy 
is  a  "gentleman,"  inside  and  out,  up  and 
down — from  the  crown  of  his  head  (which 
is  getting  rather  bald)  to  the  sole  of  his 
foot  (by  no  means  a  small  one,  or  a  light- 
ly shod — ex  pede  Herculem) ! 

Indeed,  this  is  always  the  first  thing 
people  say  of  Taffy— and  the  last.      It 


364 


HARPER'S    NEW    MONTHLY    MAGAZINE. 


TOUT   VIENT   A   POINT,   POUR   QUI   SAIT   ATTENDRE  !' 


means,  perhaps,  that  he  may  be  a  trifle 
dull.     Well,  one  can't  be  everything'! 

Porthos  was  a  trifle  dull — and  so  was 
Athos,  I  think;  and  likewise  his  son,  the 
faithful  Viscount  of  Bragelonne  —  bon 
chien  chasse  de  race !  And  so  was  Wil- 
fred of  Ivanhoe,  the  disinherited;  and 
Edgar,  the  Lord  of  Ravenswood;  and  so, 
for  that  matter,  was  Colonel  Newcome, 
of  immortal  memory! 

Yet  who  does  not  love  them  —  who 
would  not  wish  to  be  like  them,  for  better, 
for  worse? 

Taffy's  wife  is  unlike  Taffy  in  many 
ways;  but  (fortunately  for  both)  very 
like  him  in  some.  She  is  a  little  wo- 
man, very  well  shaped,  very  dark,  with 
black  wavy  hair  and  very  small  hands 
and  feet;  a  very  graceful,  handsome,  and 
vivacious  person;  by  no  means  dull ;  full, 
indeed,  of  quick  perceptions  and  intui- 
tions, deeply  interested  in  all  that  is  going 
on  about  and  around  her,  and  with  al- 
ways lots  to  say  about  it,  but  not  too 
much. 

She  distinctly  belongs  to  the  rare,  and 
ever -blessed,  and  most  precious  race  of 
charmers. 


She  had  fallen  in 
love  with  the  stal- 
wart Taffy  more  than 
a  quarter  of  a  cen- 
tury ago  in  the  Place 
St.-Anatole  des  Arts, 
where  he  and  she  and 
her  mother  had  tend- 
ed the  sick  couch  of 
Little  Billee — but  she 
had  never  told  her 
love.  Tout  vient  a 
point,  pour  qui  sait 
attendre  ! 

That  is  a  capital 
proverb,  and  some- 
times even  a  true 
one.  Blanche  Bagot 
had  found  it  to  be 
both! 

One  terrible  night, 
never  to  be  forgotten, 
Taffy  lay  fast  asleep 
in  bed,  at  his  rooms 
in  Jermyn  Street,  for 
he  was  very  tired ; 
grief  tires  more  than 
anything,  and  brings 
a  deeper  slumber. 
That  day  he  had 
followed  Trilby  to  her  last  home  in  Kensal 
Green,  with  Little  Billee,  Mrs.  Bagot,  the 
Laird,  Sibley,  the  Greek,  and  Durien  (who 
had  come  over  from  Paris  on  purpose)  as 
chief  mourners ;  and  very  many  other  peo- 
ple, noble,  famous,  or  otherwise,  English 
and  foreign;  a  splendid  and  most  repre- 
sentative gathering,  as  was  duly  chron- 
icled in  all  the  newspapers  here  and 
abroad;  a  fitting  ceremony  to  close  the 
brief  but  splendid  career  of  the  greatest 
pleasure-giver  of  our  time. 

He  was  awoke  by  a  tremendous  ring- 
ing at  the  street-door  bell,  as  if  the  house 
were  on  fire;  and  then  there  was  a  hur- 
ried scrambling  up  in  the  dark,  a  tum- 
bling over  stairs  and  kicking  against 
banisters,  and  Little  Billee  had  burst 
into  his  room,  calling  out:  "Oh!  Taffy, 
Taffy!     I'm  g-going  mad  —  I'm  g-going 

m-mad !     I'm  d-d-done  for " 

"All  right,  old  fellow  —  just  wait  till 
I  strike  a  light!" 

"Oh,  Taffy  —  I  haven't  slept  for  four 
nights — not  a  wink!     She  d-d-died  with 

Sv— Sv— Sv damn  it,  I  can't  get  it 

out!  that  ruffian's  name  on  her  lips!  .  .  it 
is  as   if  he   were  calling  her  from   the 


TRILBY. 


365 


t-t-tomb!  She  recovered  her  senses  the 
very  minute  she  saw  his  photograph — 
she  was  so  f-fond  of  him  she  f -forgot  ev- 
erybody else!  She's  gone  straight  to 
him,  after  all— in  some  other  life! ...  to 
slave  for  him,  and  sing-  for  him,  and  help 
him  to  make  better  music  than  ever !  Oh, 
T— T-— oh— oh!  Taffy— oh!  oh!  oh!  catch 

hold!  c-c-catch ,;     And  Little  Bil- 

lee  had  all  but  fallen  on  the  floor  in  a  fit. 

And  all  the  old  miserable  business  of 
five  years  before  had  begun  over  again  ! 

There  has  been  too  much  sickness  in 
this  story,  so  I  will  tell  as  little  as  possi- 
ble of  poor  Little  Billee's  long  illness, 
his  slow  and  only  partial  recovery,  the 
paralysis  of  his  powers  as  a  painter,  his 
quick  decline,  his  early  death,  his  manly, 
calm,  and  most  beautiful  surrender — the 
wedding  of  the  moth  with  the  star,  of 
the  night  with  the  morrow! 

For  all  but  blameless  as  his  short  life 
had  been,  and  so  full  of  splendid  promise 
and  performance,  nothing  ever  became 
him  better  than  the  way  he  left  it.  It 
shook  the  infallibility  of  a  certain  vicar 
down  to  its  very  foundations,  and  made 
him  think  more  deeply  about  things  than 
he  had  ever  thought  yet.     It  gave  him 

pause! and  so  wrung  his  heart  that 

when,  at  the  last,  he  stooped  to  kiss  his 

poor  young  dead  friend's 

pure  white  forehead,  he 

•dropped  a  bigger  tear  on 

it  than  Little  Billee  (once 

so  given  to  the  dropping 

of   big   tears)   had   ever 

dropped  in  his  life. 

But  it  is  all  too  sad 
to  write  about. 

It  was  by  Little  Bil- 
lee's bedside,  in  Devon- 
shire, that  Taffy  had 
grown  to  love  Blanche 
Bagot,  and  not  very 
many  weeks  after  it  was 
all  over  that  Taffy  had 
asked  her  to  be  his  wife ; 
and  in  a  year  they  were 
married,  and  a  very  hap- 
py marriage  it  turned 
out — the  one  thing  that 
poor  Mrs.  Bagot  still 
looks  upon  as  a  compen- 
sation for  all  the  griefs 
and  troubles  of  her  life. 

During  the  first  year 
or  two  Blanche  had  per- 
haps been  the  most  ar- 


dently loving  of  this  well-assorted  pair. 
That  beautiful  look  of  love  surprised 
(which  makes  all  women's  eyes  look  the 
same)  came  into  hers  whenever  she  looked 
at  Taffy,  and  filled  his  heart  with  tender 
compunction,  and  a  queer  sense  of  his 
own  unworthiness. 

Then  a  boy  was  born  to  them,  and  that 
look  fell  on  the  boy,  and  the  good  Taffy 
caught  it  as  it  passed  him  by,  and  felt  a 
helpless,  absurd  jealousy,  that  was  none 
the  less  painful  for  being  so  ridiculous! 
and  then  that  look  fell  on  another  boy, 
and  yet  another,  so  that  it  was  through 
these  boys  that  she  looked  at  their  father. 
Then  his  eyes  caught  the  look,  and  kept 
it  for  their  own  use;  and  he  grew  never 
to  look  at  his  wife  without  it:  and  as  no 
daughter  came,  she  retained  for  life  the 
monopoly  of  that  most  sweet  and  expres- 
sive regard. 

They  are  not  very  rich.  He  is  a  far 
better  sportsman  than  he  will  ever  be  a 
painter ;  and  if  he  doesn't  sell  his  pictures, 


ANIMULA,  VAGUU,  BLANDULA  ! 

HOSPES   COMESQUE   CORPORIS 

QUAE  NUNC  ABIBIS  IN  LOCA  ? 


366 


HARPER'S    NEW    MONTHLY    MAGAZINE. 


it  is  not  because  they  are  too  good  for  the 
public  taste:  indeed,  he  has  no  illusions 
on  that  score  himself,  even  if  his  wife  has ! 
He  is  quite  the  least  conceited  art-duffer 
I  ever  met — an#d  I  have  met  many  far 
worse  duffers  than  Taffy. 

Would  only  that  I  might  kill  off  his 
cousin  Sir  Oscar,  and  Sir  Oscar's  five  sons 
(the  Wynnes  are  good  at  sons),  and  his 
seventeen  grandsons,  and  the  fourteen 
cousins  (and  their  numerous  male  proge- 
ny), that  stand  between  Taffy  and  the 
baronetcy,  and  whatever  property  goes 
with  it,  so  that  he  might  be  Sir  Taffy, 
and  dear  Blanche  Bagot  (that  was)  might 
be  called  "my  lady"  !  This  Shakespeari- 
an holocaust  would  scarcely  cost  me  a 
pang! 

It  is  a  great  temptation,  when  you  have 
duly  slain  your  first  hero,  to  enrich  hero 
number  two  beyond  the  dreams  of  avarice, 
and  provide  him  with  a  title  and  a  castle 
and  park,  as  well  as  a  handsome  wife  and 
a  nice  family !  But  truth  is  inexorable — 
and  besides,  they  are  just  as  happy  as  they 
are. 

They  are  well  off  enough,  anyhow,  to 
spend  a  week  in  Paris  at  last,  and  even  to 
stop  at  the  Grand  Hotel !  now  that  two  of 
their  sons  are  at  Harrow  (where  their 
father  was  before  them),  and  the  third  is 
safe  at  a  preparatory  school  at  Elstree, 
Herts. 

It  is  their  first  outing  since  the  honey- 
moon, and  the  Laird  should  have  come 
with  them. 

But  the  good  Laird  of  Cockpen  (who  is 
now  a  famous  Royal  Academician)  is  pre- 
paring for  a  honey-moon  of  his  own.  He 
has  gone  to  Scotland  to  be  married  him- 
self— to  wed  a  fair  and  clever  country- 
woman of  just  a  suitable  age,  for  he  has 
known  her  ever  since  she  was  a  bright 
little  lassie  in  short  frocks,  and  he  a  prom- 
ising A.R.  A.  (the  pride  of  his  native  Dun- 
dee)— a  marriage  of  reason,  and  well-sea- 
soned affection,  and  mutual  esteem — and 
therefore  sure  to  turn  out  a  happy  one! 
and  in  another  fortnight  or  so  the  pair 
of  them  will  very  possibly  be  sitting  to 
breakfast  opposite  each  other  at  that 
very  corner  table  in  the  court-yard  of  the 
Grand  Hotel !  and  she  will  laugh  at  every 
thing  he  says— and  they  will  live  happily 
ever  after. 

So  much  for  hero  number  three — D'Ar- 
tagnan !  Here's  to  you,  Sandy  McAllister ! 
Canniest,  genialest,  and  most  humorous 
of  Scots!  most  delicate,  and  dainty,  and 


fanciful  of  British  painters!  "I  trink 
your  health,  mit  your  family's — may  you 
lif  long — and  brosper!" 

So  Taffy  and  his  wife  have  come  for 
their  second  honey-moon,  their  Indian- 
summer  honey-moon,  alone;  and  are  well 
content  that  it  should  be  so.  Two  are  al- 
ways company  for  such  a  pair — the  amus- 
ing one  and  the  amusable! — and  they  are 
making  the  most  of  it! 

They  have  been  all  over  the  quartier 
latin,  and  revisited  the  well-remembered 
spots;  and  even  been  allowed  to  enter  the 
old  studio  through  the  kindness  of  the 
concierge  (who  is  no  longer  Madame  Vi- 
nard).  It  is  tenanted  by  two  American 
painters,  who  are  coldly  civil  on  being 
thus  disturbed  in  the  middle  of  their 
work. 

The  studio  is  very  spick  and  span,  and 
most  respectable.  Trilby's  foot  and  the 
poem  and  the  sheet  of  plate-glass  have 
been  improved  away,  and  a  bookshelf 
put  in  their  place.  The  new  concierge 
(who  has  only  been  there  a  year)  knows 
nothing  of  Trilby;  and  of  the  Vinards, 
only  that  they  are  rich  and  prosperous, 
and  live  somewhere  in  the  south  of  France, 
and  that  Monsieur  Vinard  is  mayor  of  his 
commune.  Que  le  bon  Dieu  les  benisse  I 
c'etaient  de  bien  braves  gens. 

Then  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Taffy  have  also  been 
driven  (in  an  open  caleche  with  two 
horses)  through  the  Bois  de  Boulogne  to 
St. -Cloud;  and  to  Versailles,  where  they 
lunched  at  the  Hotel  des  Reservoirs — 
parlez-moi  de  ga! — and  to  St.-Germain, 
and  to  Meudon  (where  they  lunched  at  la 
loge  du  garde  champetre — a  new  one) ; 
they  have  visited  the  Salon,  the  Louvre, 
the  porcelain  manufactory  at  Sevres,  the 
Gobelins,  the  Hotel  Cluny,  the  Invalides, 
with  Napoleon's  tomb,  and  seen  half  a 
dozen  churches,  including  Notre  Dame 
and  the  Sainte-Chapelle ;  and  dined  with 
the  Dodors  at  their  charming  villa  near 
Asnieres,  and  with  the  Zouzous  at  the 
splendid  Hotel  de  la  Rochemartel,  and 
with  the  Duriens  in  the  Pare  Monceau 
(Dodor's  food  was  best  and  Zouzou's  worst ; 
and  at  Durien's  the  company  and  talk 
were  so  good  that  one  forgot  to  notice  the 
food — and  that  was  a  pity).  And  the 
young  Dodors  are  all  right — and  so  are 
the  young  Duriens.  As  for  the  young 
Zouzous,  there  aren't  any — and  that's  a 
relief. 

And  they've  been  to  the  Varietes  and 


PETITS   BONHEURS    DE    CONTREBANDE. 


seen  Madame  Chaumont,  and  to  the 
Francais  and  seen  Sarah  Bernhardt  and 
Coquelin  and  Delaunay,  and  to  the  opera 
and  heard  M.  Lassalle. 

And,  to-day  being"  their  last  day,  they 
are  going  to  laze  and  flane  about  the 
boulevards,  and  buy  thing's,  and  lunch 
anywhere,  "sur  le  pouce,"  and  do  the 
Bois  once  more  and  see  tout  Paris,  and 
dine  early  at  Bignon's  (or  else  the  Cafe  des 
Ambassadeurs),  and  finish  up  the  well- 
spent  day  at  the  "  Mouches  d'Espagne  " 
— the  new  theatre  in  the  Boulevard  Pois- 
sonniere — to  see  Madame  Cantharidi  in 
Petits  bonheurs  de  Contrebande,  which 
they  are  told  is  immensely  droll  and  quite 
proper  —  funny  without  being  vulgar! 
Dodor  was  their  informant — he  had  taken 
Madame  Dodor  to  see  it  three  or  four 
times. 

Madame  Cantharidi,  as  everybody 
knows,  is  a  very  clever  but  extremely 
plain  old  woman  with  a  cracked  voice— 
of  spotless  reputation,  and  the  irreproach- 
able mother  of  a  grown-up  family  whom 
she  has  brought  up  in  perfection.  They 
have  never  been  allowed  to  see  their 
mother  (and  grandmother)  act — not  even 
the  sons.  Their  excellent  father  (who 
adores  both  them  and  her)  has  drawn  the 
line  at  that ! 

In  private  life  she  is  "quite  the  lady," 
but  on  the  stage — well,  go  and  see  her, 
and  you  will  understand  how  she  comes 
to  be  the  idol  of  the  Parisian  public.  For 
she  is  the  true  and  liberal  dispenser  to 

Vol.  LXXXIX.-No.  531.— 40 


them  of  that  modern  "esprit  gaulois" 
which  would  make  the  good  Rabelais 
turn  uneasily  in  his  grave  and  blush  there 
like  a  Benedictine  Sister. 

And  truly  she  deserves  the  reverential 
love  and  gratitude  of  her  chers  Parisi- 
ens!  She  amused  them  all  through  the 
Empire ;  during  the  annee  terrible  she  was 
their  only  stay  and  comfort,  and  has  been 
their  chief  delight  ever  since,  and  is  now. 

When  they  come  back  from  La  Re- 
vanche, may  Madame  Cantharidi  be  still 
at  her  post,  "  Les  mouches  d'Espagne," 
to  welcome  the  returning  heroes,  and  ex- 
ult and  crow  with  them  in  her  funny 
cracked  old  voice,  or,  haply,  even  console 
them  once  more,  as  the  case  may  be! 

"Victors  or  vanquished,  they  will 
laugh  the  same !" 

Mrs.  Taffy  is  a  poor  French  scholar. 
One  must  know  French  very  well  indeed 
(and  many  other  things  besides)  to  seize 
the  subtle  points  of  Madame  Cantharidi's 
play  (and  by-play) ! 

But  Madame  Cantharidi  has  so  droll  a 
face  and  voice,  and  such  very  droll,  odd 
movements,  that  Mrs.  Taffy  goes  into  fits 
of  laughter  as  soon  as  the  little  old  lady 
comes  on  the  stage.  So  heartily  does  she 
laugh  that  a  good  Parisian  bourgeois  turns 
round  and  remarks  to  his  wife:  "  Via  une 
jolie  p'tite  Anglaise  qui  n'est  pas  begueule, 
au  moins !  Et  V  gros  bceuf  avec  les  yeux 
bleus  en  boules  de  loto— c'est  son  mari, 
sans  doute!  il  n'a  pas  l'air  trop  content 
par  exemple,  celui-la!" 


368 


HARPER'S    NEW    MONTHLY    MAGAZINE. 


The  fact  is  that  the  good  Taffy  (who 
knows  French  very  well  indeed)  is  quite 
scandalized,  and  very  angry  with  Dodor 
for  sending  them  there;  and  as  soon  as 
the  first  act  is  finished  he  means,  without 
any  fuss,  to  take  his  wife  away. 

As  he  sits  patiently,  too  indignant  to 
laugh  at  what  is  really  funny  in  the 
piece  (much  of  it  is  vulgar  without  being 
funny),  he  finds  himself  watching  a  little 
white-haired  man  in  the  orchestra,  a  fid- 
dler, the  shape  of  whose  back  seems 
somehow  familiar,  as  he  plays  an  obbli- 
gato  accompaniment  to  a  very  broadly 
comic  song  of  Madame  Cantharidi's.  He 
plays  beautifully — like  a  master — and  the 
loud  applause  is  as  much  for  him  as  for 
the  vocalist. 

Presently  this  fiddler  turns  his  head 
so  that  his  profile  can  be  seen,  and  Taffy 
recognizes  him. 

After  five  minutes'  thought,  Taffy  takes 
a  leaf  out  of  his  pocket-book  and  writes 
(in  perfectly  grammatical  French) : 

"Dear  Gecko, — You  have  not  forgot- 
ten Taffy  Wynne,  I  hope;  and  Litrebili, 
and  Litrebili's  sister,  who  is  now  Mrs. 
Taffy  Wynne.  We  leave  Paris  to-mor- 
row, and  would  like  very  much  to  see 
you  once  more.  Will  you,  after  the 
play,  come  and  sup  with  us  at  the  Cafe 
Anglais?  If  so,  look  up  and  make  '  yes  ' 
with  the  head,  and  enchant 

Your  well  devoted 

Taffy  Wynne." 

He  gives  this,  folded,  to  an  attendant — 
for  "le  premier  violon — celui  qui  a  des 
cheveux  blancs." 

Presently  he  sees  Gecko  receive  the 
note  and  read  it  and  ponder  for  a  while. 

Then  Gecko  looks  round  the  theatre, 
and  Taffy  waves  his  handkerchief  and 
catches  the  eye  of  the  premier  violon, 
who  "  makes  '  yes'  with  the  head." 

And  then,  the  first  act  over,  Mr.  and 
Mrs.  Wynne  leave  the  theatre;  Mr.  ex- 
plaining why  and  Mrs.  very  ready  to  go, 
as  she  was  beginning  to  feel  strangely 
uncomfortable  without  quite  realizing  as 
yet  what  was  amiss  with  the  lively  Ma- 
dame Cantharidi. 

They  went  to  the  Cafe  Anglais  and  be- 
spoke a  nice  little  room  on  the  entresol 
overlooking  the  boulevard,  and  ordered  a 
nice  little  supper;  salmi  of  something 
very  good,  mayonnaise  of  lobster,  and 
one  or  two  other  dishes  better  still  — and 


chambertin  of  the  best.  Taffy  was  par- 
ticular about  these  things  on  a  holiday, 
and  regardless  of  expense.  Porthos  was 
very  hospitable,  and  liked  good  food  and 
plenty  of  it ;  and  Athos  dearly  loved 
good  wine! 

And  then  they  went  and  sat  at  a  little 
round  table  outside  the  western  corner 
cafe  on  the  boulevard,  near  the  Grand 
Opera,  where  it  is  always  very  gay,  and 
studied  Paris  life,  and  nursed  their  appe- 
tites till  supper-time. 

At  half  past  eleven  Gecko  made  his 
appearance — very  meek  and  humble.  He 
looked  old— ten  years  older  than  he  really 
was — much  bowed  down,  and  as  if  he  had 
roughed  it  all  his  life,  and  had  found  liv- 
ing a  desperate  long  hard  grind. 

He  kissed  Mrs. Taffy's  hand,  and  seemed 
half  inclined  to  kiss  Taffy's  too,  and  was 
almost  tearful  in  his  pleasure  at  meeting 
them  again,  and  his  gratitude  at  being 
asked  to  sup  with  them.  He  had  soft, 
clinging,  caressing  manners,  like  a  nice 
dog's,  that  made  you  his  friend  at  once. 
He  was  obviously  genuine  and  sincere, 
and  quite  pathetically  simple,  as  he  al- 
ways had  been. 

At  first  he  could  scarcely  eat  for  ner- 
vous excitement;  but  Taffy's  fine  example 
and  Mrs.  Taffy's  genial,  easy-going  cor- 
diality (and  a  couple  of  glasses  of  cham- 
bertin) soon  put  him  at  his  ease  and  woke 
up  his  dormant  appetite,  which  was  a 
very  large  one,  poor  fellow! 

He  was  told  all  about  Little  Billee's 
death,  and  deeply  moved  to  hear  the 
cause  which  had  brought  it  about,  and 
then  they  talked  of  Trilby. 

He  pulled  her  watch  out  of  his  waist- 
coat pocket  and  reverently  kissed  it,  ex- 
claiming: "Ah!  c'etait  un  ange !  un  ange 
du  Paradis!  when  I  tell  you  I  lived  with 
them  for  five  years!  Oh!  her  kindness, 
Dio  Maria!  It  was  'Gecko  this!'  and 
'Gecko  that!'  and  'Poor  Gecko,  your 
toothache,  how  it  worries  me  !'  and 
'Gecko,  how  tired  and  pale  you  look — 
you  distress  me  so,  looking  like  that! 
Shall  I  mix  you  a  Maitrank?'  And 
'  Gecko,  you  love  artichokes  a  la  Bari- 
goule — they  remind  you  of  Paris;  I  have 
heard  you  say  so — well,  I  have  found  out 
where  to  get  artichokes,  and  I  know  how 
to  do  them  a  la  Barigoule,  and  you  shall 
have  them  for  dinner  to-day  and  to-mor- 
row and  all  the  week  after!'  and  we  did! 

"  Ach  !  dear  kind  one — what  did  I  real- 
ly care  for  artichokes  a  la  Barigoule .... 


ENTER   GECKO. 


"And  it  was  always  like  that — always 
— and  to  Svengali  and  old  Marta  just  the 
same!  and  she  was  never  well — never! 
toujours  souffrante! 

"  And  it  was  she  who  supported  us  all 
— in  luxury  and  splendor  sometimes!" 

"And  what  an  artist!"  said  Taffy. 

"Ah,  yes!  but  all  that  was  Svengali, 
you  know.  Svengali  was  the  greatest 
artist  I  ever  met!  Monsieur,  Svengali 
was  a  demon,  a  magician!  I  used  to 
think  him  a  god !  He  found  me  playing 
in  the  streets  for  copper  coins,  and  took 
me  by  the  hand,  and  was  my  only  friend, 
and  taught  me  all  I  ever  knew — and  yet 
he  could  not  play  my  instrument! 

"  And  now  he  is  dead,  I  have  forgotten 
how  to  play  it  myself !  That  English  jail ! 
it  demoralized  me,  ruined  me  forever! 
ach !  quel  enfer,  nom  de  Dieu  (pardon,  ma- 
dame)  !  I  am  just  good  enough  to  play 
the  obbligato  at  the  Mouches  d'Espagne, 
when  the  old  Cantharidi  sings, 

'  VI a  raon  mari  qui  r'garde  ! 
Prends  garde  !     Ne  m'chatouille  plus !' 


"  It  does  not  want  much  of  an  obbligato, 
hein,  a  song  so  noble  and  so  beautiful  as 
that! 

"  And  that  song,  monsieur,  all  Paris  is 
singing  it  now.  And  that  is  the  Paris  that 
went  mad  when  Trilby  sang  the  'Nuss- 
baum'  of  Schumann  at  the  Salle  des 
Bashibazoucks.     You  heard  her?    Well!" 

And  here  poor  Gecko  tried  to  laugh  a 
little  sardonic  laugh  in  falsetto,  like  Sven- 
gali's,  full  of  scorn  and  bitterness — and 
very  nearly  succeeded. 

"  But  what  made  you  strike  him  with — 
with  that  knife,  you  know?" 

"  Ah,  monsieur,  it  had  been  coming  on 
for  a  long  time.  He  used  to  work  Trilby 
too  hard;  it  was  killing  her — it  killed  her 
at  last!  And  then  at  the  end  he  was  un- 
kind to  her,  and  scolded  her,  and  called 
her  names — horrid  names — and  then  one 
day  in  London  he  struck  her.  He  struck 
her  on  the  fingers  with  his  baton,  and  she 
fell  down  on  her  knees  and  cried.  .  . . 

"Monsieur,  I  would  have  defended 
Trilby  against  a  locomotive  going  grande 


370 


HARPER'S    NEW    MONTHLY    MAGAZINE. 


vitesse!  against  my  own  father — against 
the  Emperor  of  Austria — against  the  Pope ! 
and  I  am  a  good  Catholic,  monsieur!  I 
would  have  gone  to  the  scaffold  for  her, 
and  to  the  devil  after!" 

And  he  piously  crossed  himself. 

"  But,  Svengali— wasn't  he  very  fond  of 
her?" 

"Oh  yes,  monsieur,  quant  a Qa,  passion- 
ately! But  she  did  not  love  him  as  he 
wished  to  be  loved.  She  loved  Litrebili, 
monsieur!  Litrebili,  the  brother  of  Ma- 
dame. And  I  suppose  that  Svengali  grew 
angry  and  jealous  at  last.  He  changed 
as  soon  as  he  came  to  Paris.  Perhaps 
Paris  reminded  him  of  Litrebili — and  re- 
minded Trilby  too !" 

"But  how  on  earth  did  Svengali  ever 
manage  to  teach  her  how  to  sing  like  that? 
She  had  no  ear  for  music  whatever  when 
we  knew  her!" 

Gecko  was  silent  for  a  while,  and  Taffy 
filled  his  glass,  and  gave  him  a  cigar,  and 
lit  one  himself. 

"  Monsieur,  no — that  is  true.  She  had 
not  much  ear.  But  she  had  such  a  voice 
as  had  never  been  heard.  Svengali  knew 
that.  He  had  found  it  out  long  ago. 
Litolff  had  found  it  out  too.  One  day 
Svengali  heard  Litolff  tell  Meyerbeer  that 


WE   TOOK    HER   VOICE    NOTE    BY    NOTE. 


the  most  beautiful  female  voice  in  Europe 
belonged  to  an  English  grisette  who  sat 
as  a  model  to  sculptors  in  the  quartier 
latin,  but  that  unfortunately  she  was 
quite  tone-deaf,  and  couldn't  sing  one 
single  note  in  tune.  Imagine  how  Sven- 
gali chuckled!     I  see  it  from  here! 

"Well,  we  both  taught  her  together — 
for  three  years — morning,  noon,  and  night 
— six— eight  hours  a  day.  It  used  to  split 
me  the  heart  to  see  her  worked  like 
that!  We  took  her  voice  note  by  note — 
there  was  no  end  to  her  notes,  each  more 
beautiful  than  the  other — velvet  and  gold, 
beautiful  flowers,  pearls,  diamonds,  rubies 
— drops  of  dew  and  honey;  peaches,  or- 
anges, and  lemons !  en  veux-tu  en  voila ! — 
all  the  perfumes  and  spices  of  the  Garden 
of  Eden  !  Svengali  with  his  little  flexible 
flageolet,  I  with  my  violin — that  is  how 
we  taught  her  to  make  the  sounds — and 
then  how  to  use  them.  She  was  a  phe- 
nomene,  monsieur!  She  could  keep  on 
one  note  and  make  it  go  through  all  the 
colors  in  the  rainbow — according  to  the 
way  Svengali  looked  at  her.  It  would 
make  you  laugh — it  would  make  you  cry 
— but  cry  or  laugh,  it  was  the  sweetest, 
the  most  touching,  the  most  beautiful  note 
you  ever  heard— except  all  her  others! 
and  each  had  as  many 
overtones  as  the  bells 
^tf^lttMW  'n  ^e  carillon  de  No- 

tre Dame.  She  could 
run  up  and  down 
the  scales,  chromatic 
scales,  quicker  and  bet- 
ter and  smoother  than 
Svengali  on  the  pi- 
ano, and  more  in  tune 
than  any  piano !  and 
her  shake — ach!  twin 
stars,  monsieur!  She 
was  the  greatest  con- 
tralto, the  greatest  so- 
prano, the  world  has 
ever  known!  the  like 
of  her  has  never  been  I 
the  like  of  her  will 
never  be  again!  and 
yet  she  only  sang  in 
public  for  two  years! 

"  Ach  !  those  breaks - 
and  runs  and  sudden 
leaps  from  darkness 
into  light  and  back 
again — from  earth  to 
heaven ! .  .  .  those  slurs 
and  swoops  and  slides 


A   NIGHTINGALE  S    FIRST   NIGHT. 


u  la  Paganini  from  one  note  to  another, 
like  a  swallow  flying! ...  or  a  gull!  Do 
you  remember  them?  how  they  drove  you 
mad?  Let  any  other  singer  in  the  world 
try  to  imitate  them — they  would  make 
you  sick !  That  was  Svengali ...  he  was 
~a  magician! 

"And  how  she  looked,  singing!  do  you 
remember?  her  hands  behind  her — her 
-dear,  sweet,  slender  foot  on  a  little  stool — 
her  thick  hair  lying  down  all  along  her 
back !  And  that  good  smile  like  the  Ma- 
donna's, so  soft  and  bright  and  kind ! 
Ach  I  Bel  ucel  di  Dio !  it  was  to  make 
you  weep  for  love,  merely  to  see  her 
(c'etait  a  vous  faire  pleurer  aVamour, 
rien  que  de  la  voir) !  That  was  Trilby! 
Nightingale  and  bird-of-paradise  in  one! 

"Enfin  she  could  do  anything — utter 
-any  sound  she  liked,  when  once  Svengali 
had  shown  her  how — and  he  was  the 
greatest  master  that  ever  existed!  and 
when  once  she  knew  a  thing,  she  knew  it. 
JEtvoildr 


"How  strange,"  said  Taffy,  "that  she 
should  have  suddenly  gone  out  of  her 
senses  that  night  at  Drury  Lane,  and  so 
completely  forgotten  it  all!  I  suppose 
she  saw  Svengali  die  in  the  box  opposite, 
and  that  drove  her  mad !" 

And  then  Taffy  told  the  little  tiddler 
about  Trilby's  death-song,  like  a  swan's, 
and  Svengali's  photograph.  But  Gecko 
had  heard  it  all  from  Marta,  who  was 
now  dead. 

Gecko  sat  and  smoked  and  pondered 
for  a  while,  and  looked  from  one  to  the 
other.  Then  he  pulled  himself  together 
with  an  effort,  so  to  speak,  and  said, 
"  Monsieur,  she  never  went  mad — not  for 
one  moment!" 

"What?  Do  you  mean  to  say  she  de- 
ceived us  all?" 

11  Non,  monsieur !  She  could  never  de- 
ceive anybody,  and  never  would.  She 
had  forgotten — voild  tout  /" 

"  But  hang  it  all,  my  friend,  one  doesn't 
forget  such  a — " 


372 


HARPER'S    NEW    MONTHLY    MAGAZINE. 


"  Monsieur,  listen  !  She  is  dead.  And 
Svengali  is  dead — and  Marta  also.  And  I 
have  a  good  little  malady  that  will  kill 
me  soon,  Gott  sei  dank —  and  without 
much  pain. 

"  I  will  tell  you  a  secret. 

"  There  were  two  Trilby s.  There  was 
the  Trilby  you  knew,  who  could  not  sing 
one  single  note  in  tune.  She  was  an  an- 
gel of  paradise.  She  is  now !  But  she  had 
no  more  idea  of  singing  than  I  have  of 
winning  a  steeple-chase  at  the  croix  de 
Berny.  She  could  no  more  sing  than  a 
fiddle  can  play  itself!  She  could  never 
tell  one  tune  from  another — one  note  from 
the  next.  Do  you  remember  how  she 
tried  to  sing  'Ben  Bolt'  that  day  w7hen 
she  first  came  to  the  studio  in  the  Place 
St.-Anatole  des  Arts?  It  was  droll,  heinl 
a  se  boucher  les  oreilles  I  Well,  that  was 
Trilby,  your  Trilby !  that  was  my  Trilby 
too — and  I  loved  her  as  one  loves  an  only 
love,  an  only  sister,  an  only  child — a  gen- 
tle martyr  on  earth,  a  blessed  saint  in 
heaven!  And  that  Trilby  was  enough 
for  me  I 

"And  that  was  the  Trilby  that  loved 
your  brother,  madame — oh!  but  with  all 
the  love  that  was  in  her!  He  did  not 
know  what  he  had  lost,  your  brother! 
Her  love,  it  was  immense,  like  her  voice, 
and  just  as  full  of  celestial  sweetness  and 
sympathy!  She  told  me  everything!  ce 
pauvre  Litrebili,  ce  quHl  a  perdu ! 

"But  all  at  once — pr-r-r-out!  presto! 
augenblick! ....  with  one  wave  of  his 
hand  over  her — with  one  look  of  his  eye — 
with  a  word — Svengali  could  turn  her  into 
the  other  Trilby,  his  Trilby — and  make 
her  do  whatever  he  liked  ....  you  might 
have  run  a  red-hot  needle  into  her  and 
she  would  not  have  felt  it ...  . 

"He  had  but  to  say  'Dors!'  and  she 
suddenly  became  an  unconscious  Trilby 
of  marble,  who  could  produce  wonderful 
sounds — just  the  sounds  he  wanted,  and 
nothing  else — and  think  his  thoughts  and 
wish  his  wishes — and  love  him  at  his  bid- 
ding   with    a    strange    unreal    factitious 

love just  his  own  love  for  himself 

turned  inside  out — a  leavers  —  and  re- 
ilected   back  on    him,   as  from   a  minor 

un  echo,  un  simulacre,  quoi !  pas 

autre  chose! .  . .  It  was  not  worth  hav- 
ing !     I  was  not  even  jealous ! 

"  Well,  that  was  the  Trilby  he  taught 
how  to  sing — and — and  I  helped  him, 
God  of  heaven  forgive  me !  She  was  just 
a  singing -machine — an    organ   to   play 


upon — an  instrument  of  music — a  Stradi- 
varius — a  flexible  flageolet  of  flesh  and 
blood — a  voice,  and  nothing  more — just 
the  unconscious  voice  that  Svengali  sang 
with — for  it  takes  two  to  sing  like  la 
Svengali,  monsieur — the  one  who  has  got 
the  voice,  and  the  one  wTho  knows  what 

to  do  with   it So  that   when  you 

heard  her  sing  the  'Nussbaum,' the  'Im- 
promptu,' you  heard  Svengali  singing 
with  her  voice,  just  as  you  hear  Joachim 
play  a  chaconne  of  Bach  with  his  fiddle! 
....  Herr  Joachim's  fiddle .  .  .  what  does 
it  know  of  Sebastian  Bach  ?  and  as  for 
chaconnes . . . .  il  s'en  moque  pas  mal,  ce 
fameux  violon ! .  . . 

"  And  our  Trilby  .  .  .  what  did  she  know 
of  Schumann,  Chopin?  Nothing  at  allt 
She  mocked  herself  not  badly  of  nuss- 
baums  and  impromptus  ....  they  would 
make  her  yawn  to  demantibulate  her 
jaws!  ....  When  Svengali's  Trilby  was. 
being  taught  to  sing  ....  when  Sven- 
gali's Trilby  was  singing — or  seemed  to- 
you  as  if  she  were  singing — our  Trilby 
had  ceased  to  exist ....  our  Trilby  was. 
fast  asleep  ....  in  fact,  our  Trilby  was- 
dead 

"Ah,  monsieur . .  .  that  Trilby  of  Sven- 
gali's! I  have  heard  her  sing  to  kings, 
and  queens  in  royal  palaces ! ...  as  no- 
woman  has  ever  sung  before  or  since.  .  .  . 
I  have  seen  emperors  and  grand-dukes 
kiss  her  hand,  monsieur — and  their  wives- 
and  daughters  kiss  her  lips,  and  weep.  .  .  . 

"I  have  seen  the  horses  taken  out  of 
her  sledge  and  the  pick  of  the  nobility 
drag  her  home  to  the  hotel .  . .  with  torch- 
lights and  choruses  and  shoutings  of 
glory  and  long  life  to  her!  .  .  .  and  sere- 
nades all  night,  under  her  window  ! . .  .  . 
She  never  knew!  she  heard  nothing — felt, 
nothing — saw  nothing!  and  she  bowed  to 
them,  right  and  left,  like  a  queen  ! 

"I  have  played  the  fiddle  for  her  while 
she  sang  in  the  streets,  at  fairs  and  festas- 
and  Kermessen  ....  and  seen  the  people 
go  mad  to  hear  her ....  and  once,  Sven- 
gali fell  down  in  a  fit  from  sheer  excite- 
ment! and  then,  suddenly,  our  Trilby 
woke  up  and  wondered  what  it  was  all 
about ....  and  we  took  him  home  and  put 
him  to  bed  and  left  him  with  Marta — and 
Trilby  and  I  went  together  arm  in  arm 
all  over  the  town  to  fetch  a  doctor  and 
buy  things  for  supper — and  that  was  the 
happiest  hour  in  all  my  life! 

"Ach!  what  an  existence!  what  trav- 
els!   what   triumphs!    what   adventures!! 


TEILBY. 


373 


Things  to  fill  a  book — a  dozen  books .... 
Those  five  happy  years — with  those  two 
Trilbys!  what  recollections! ....  I  think 
of  nothing  else,  night  or  day  ....  even  as 
I  play  the  fiddle  for  old  Cantharidi.  Ach ! 
to  think  how  often  I  have  played  the 
fiddle  for  la  Svengali  ....  to  have  done 
that  is  to  have  lived  ....  and  then  to 
come  home  to  Trilby  ....  our  Trilby  .... 
the  real  Trilby ! .  .  .  Gott  sei  dank !  Ich 
habe  geliebt  und  gelebet !  geliebt  und 
gelebet !  geliebt  und  gelebet ! .  .  .  Cristo  di 
Dio  ....  Sweet  sister  in  heaven  .  .  .  .  O 
Dieu  de  Misere,  ayez  pitie  de  nous .  .  . ." 

His  eyes  were  red,  and  his  voice  was 
high  and  shrill  and  full  of  tears;  these  re- 
membrances were  too  much  for  him;  and 
perhaps  also  the  chambertin!  He  put  his 
elbows  on  the  table  and%  hid  his 
face  in  his  hands  and  wept,  mutter- 
ing to  himself  in  his  own  language 
(whatever  that  might  have  been — 
Polish,  probably)  as  if  he  were  pray- 
ing. 

Taffy  and  his  wife  got  up  and  leant 
on  the  window-bar  and  looked  out 
on  the  deserted  boulevards,  where 


boulevard — a  nice  little  breeze;  just  the 
sort  of  little  breeze  to  do  Paris  good. 
A  four-wheel  cab  came  by  at  a  foot- 
pace, the  driver  humming  a  tune;  Taffy 
hailed  him;  he  said,  "Via,  m'sieur!"  and 
drew  up. 

Taffy  rang  the  bell,  and  asked  for  the 
bill,  and  paid  it.  Gecko  had  apparently 
fallen  asleep.  Taffy  gently  woke  him  up, 
and  told  him  how  late  it  was.  The  poor 
little  man  seemed  dazed  and  rather  tipsy, 
and  looked  older  than  ever — sixty,  seven- 
ty—any age  you  like.  Taffy  helped  him 
on  with  his  great-coat,  and  taking  him  by 
the  arm,  led  him  down  stairs,  giving  him 
his  card,  and  telling  him  how  glad  he  was 
to  have  seen  him,  and  that  he  would  write 
to  him  from  England — a  promise  which 
was  kept,  one  may  be  sure. 


ICH    HABE    GELIEBT    UND    GELEBET !" 


an  army  of  scavengers,  noiseless  and  taci- 
turn, was  cleansing  the  asphalt  roadway. 
The  night  above  was  dark,  but  "  star-dials 
hinted  of  morn,"  and  a  fresh  breeze  had 
sprung  up,  making  the  leaves  dance  and 
rustle   on  the    sycamore-trees  along  the 


Gecko  uncovered  his  fuzzy  white  head, 
and  took  Mrs.  Taffy's  hand  and  kissed  it, 
and  thanked  her  warmly  for  her  "si  bon 
et  sympathique  accueil." 

Then  Taffy  all  but  lifted  him  into  the 
cab,  the  jolly  cabman  saying: 


374 


HARPER'S    NEW    MONTHLY    MAGAZINE. 


"Ah!  bon —  connais  bien,  celui-la; 
vous  savez — c'est  lui  qui  joue  du  violon 
aux  Mouches  d'Espagne!  II  a  soupe, 
1'  bourgeois ;  n'est  ce  pas,  m'sieur?  *  petits 
bonheurs  de  contrebande,'  hein?  .  .  Ayez 
pas  peur!  on  vous  aura  soin  de  lui!  II 
joue  joliment  bien,  m'sieur;  n'est  ce  pas?" 

Taffy  shook  Gecko's  hand,  and  asked, 

"  Ou  restez-vous,  Gecko?" 

"  Quaranle-huit,  Rue  des  Pousse-Cail- 
loux,  au  cinquieme." 

1 '  How  strange !"  said  Taffy  to  his  wife — 
' '  how  touching !  why,  that's  where  Trilby 
used  to  live — the  very  number!  the  very 
floor!" 

"Oui,  oui,"  said  Gecko,  waking  up: 
"c'est  l'ancienne  mansarde  a  Trilby — 
j'y  suis  depuis  douze  ans — j'y  suis,  j'y 
reste " 

And  he  laughed  feebly  at  his  mild  little 
joke. 

Taffy  told  the  address  to  the  cabman, 
and  gave  him  five  francs. 

"Merci,  m'sieur!  C'est  de  l'aut'  cote 
de  l'eau— pres  de  la  Sorbonne,  s'pas?  On 
vous  aura  soin  du  bourgeois;  soyez  tran- 
quille — ayez  pas  peur! — quarante-huit;  on 
y  va !  Bonsoir,  monsieur  et  dame !"  And 
he  clacked  his  whip  and  rattled  away, 
singing: 

"  VR  mon  mari  qui  r'garde ! 
Prends  garde! 
Ne  m'chatouill'  plus!" 

Mr.  and  Mrs.  Wynne  walked  back  to 
the  hotel,  which  was  not  far.     She  hung 


on  to  his  big  arm  and  crept  close  to  him, 
and  shivered  a  little.  It  was  quite  chilly. 
Their  footsteps  were  very  audible  in  the 
stillness — "pit-pat,  flopety-clop" — other- 
wise they  were  both  silent.  They  were 
tired,  yawny,  sleepy,  and  very  sad;  and 
each  was  thinking  (and  knew  the  other 
was  thinking)  that  a  week  in  Paris  was 
just  enough — and  how  nice  it  would  be, 
in  just  a  few  hours  more,  to  hear  the 
rooks  cawing  round  their  own  quiet  little 
English  country  home — where  three  jolly 
boys  would  soon  be  coming  for  the  holi- 
days. 

And  there  we  will  leave  them  to  their 
useful,  humdrum,  happy  domestic  exist- 
ence— than  which  there  is  no  better  that 
I  know  of,  at  their  time  of  life — and  no 
better  time  of  life  than  theirs ! 

"  Ou  peut-on  etre  mieuz  qu'au  sein  de  safamille?" 

that  blessed  harbor  of  refuge  well  within 
our  reach;  and  having  really  cut  our 
wisdom  -  teeth  at  last,  and  learnt  the 
ropes,  and  left  off  hankering  after  the 
moon,  we  can  do  with  so  little  down 
here 

A  little  work,  a  little  play, 

To  keep  us  going — and  so,  good-day  ! 

A  little  warmth,  a  little  light, 

Of  love's  bestowing — and  so,  good-night ! 

A  little  fun,  to  match  the  sorrow 

Of  each  day's  growing — and  so,  good-morrow! 

A  little  trust  that  when  we  die 

We  reap  our  sowing !     And  so — good-by  ! 


w 


SJ 


m& 


►!«! 


W/A 


*. 


